


Know the Love - Part II

by Chispas_and_broken_bindings



Series: Know The Love [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Romance, BAMF Sansa Stark, Coming of Age, F/M, Gen, Jon Snow is King in the North, Mutual Pining, Other, POV Arya Stark, POV Jon Snow, POV Multiple, POV Sansa Stark, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Politics, Slow Burn, Stark-centric (ASoIaF), Storm's End (ASoIaF), Winterfell, but less so than Part I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23878324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chispas_and_broken_bindings/pseuds/Chispas_and_broken_bindings
Summary: Jon Snow and Sansa Stark have retaken Winterfell and the North from Ramsey Bolton. Now they must work together to prepare the north for the Long Night come again, while facing threats on all sides.Meanwhile, to the south, Arya Stark has returned to Westeros, having left the the House of Black and White with no option to return, but as of yet, still unaware of her family's return to power.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: Know The Love [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703296
Comments: 280
Kudos: 346





	1. A Wolf in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya

In the end she didn't need to use any trick of the faceless men, nor a particularly clever disguise. Though donning the plain spun dress of a common woman was hardly her outfit of choice, it was easy enough to hide her weapons beneath the shapeless shift, and the rest of her belongings fit within the washer woman's basket that she balanced atop her head. And though the fortress was supposedly only days away from an enemy army laying siege upon it, the gate in the outer wall hung open from morn till dusk for its inhabitants to pass in and out between the yard within and the army camp beyond. Before passing underneath it's arches, the girl once again wondered if this fool's errand was even worth the minimal effort it had taken her so far.

Still, she knew of nowhere better to go, having left Braavos and the House of Black and White with no option to return. In Pentos, she heard rumors of a new player, ready to wage war against the Iron Throne and decided to see the truth of it with her own eyes. After observing operations from afar for several days she had seen little to impress, but she'd come this far already, so it was time to take a look at the so-called dragon before she plotted her next move. Within the walls of Storm's End, there was a bustle of excited energy as soldiers and servants prepared for the incoming Tyrell army. It was easy for the girl to explore the halls, unnoticed, after she tucked her basket behind a statuette that was collecting dust. Winding her way up the colossal drum tower, she took time to peer over the battlements toward the angry sea beyond, before slipping along the back of the feast hall.

By late afternoon, the great room had grown rowdy and full with smells of smoked meat and sweaty men. The girl took up the task of filling pitchers, weaving ever nearer to the high table where a strange mix of characters sat, two older men and a Septa, none of whom appeared to be the one she was looking for. At last, she took the opportunity to approach, filling the cup of the serious man sitting in the place of honor, his hair a mottled mix of garish blue, and his natural red and gray. He seemed to have a permanent scowl affixed as he glared out at the crowd, using his left arm to both eat and drink, causing him to repeatedly elbow the handsome septa beside him.

"Since when are you left-handed?" The elegant woman sighed, flashing deep violet eyes as he bumped her again, and the girl wondered how someone so beautiful became a septa instead of a wife.

"Eh?" The man shifted uneasily, staring down at his inert gloved hand. "Sorry. I took a blow when we took the castle and have been trying to rest it since." He eyed the man on the woman's other side, warding him off before he could speak. "No need to look at it, Haldon. I've got it handled. Where is the boy? He should be here." His frown deepened into his freshly filled cup and the lady quirked her brow at him.

"He's with his cousins and their retinue…If the last two nights are any indication, they'll sup in his chambers and not show their faces until the sun is high tomorrow."

"I don't like her. She's a distraction." He growled, but the woman just tutted, gently.

"It is good for him to be around men and women his own age…peers. Are you not always complaining that he spends too much time with Rolly? Arianne is the heir to Dorne, and her companions are lords and ladies. A few late nights seems a small price for an ally as necessary as Dorne."

"She's a conniving wench. I see what she wants from him with those wisps of silk she wears and husky innuendos. It's plain as day, and it's not-" He looked up suddenly. "Girl, what are you lolling about for? Get these plates cleared away and bring more wine! The king is obviously not coming." The girl bowed quickly, letting her hair fall into her face, before retreating with the unused dishes, dropping them unceremoniously into the arms of an unexpecting serving girl, as she left the hall.

Following the tapestries as they changed from scenes of battle and conquest to the more intimate depictions of sea maidens and lovers overlooking Durran's Point on a summer's day, she knew she'd reached the correct chambers when she heard merry laughter just beyond a door, guarded by a large man with a shock of orange hair and a shaggy beard. She walked quickly by, staring at the floor, before circling back down to her washer basket, and up again to the library, just below where the dragon king held court. There, she retreated into the corner by a window, until well after nightfall. If nothing else would, at least the castle was living up to its name, offering up a spectacular view of a tempest brewing out over the sea beyond.

Once the sounds of the castle had dimmed, and even the debauchery of the floor above at last quieted, she uncurled herself like a cat, stretching her back and shaking out her limbs in restless energy. The guard still stood sentinel outside her quarry's door, but the simple excuse of clearing the night's dishes before morn had him allowing her entrance. It was nothing to reach for the handle at the same time, brushing his hand with hers. If he noticed a prick, he didn't show it, and she slid past him into a room full of candles that had burned low, almost obscuring the four bodies sleeping in various states of discomfort around the room. A girl of an age with herself laid curled on the rug before the dying hearth, her long black braid wrapped around her arm, while another pretty young woman snored, snug between two young men on the divan. There were enough empty bottles strewn across the tables and floor for her to not fret about being disrupted, but still she had learned to minimize risk, so she held a damp cloth to each of their noses, praying for the realm that none of these fools was an actual contender for the Iron Throne.

In the next room, she found a young man awake, his back turned to her as he stoked the fire. She brushed the vase to her side, and when he turned, she found him to be handsome and strong jawed beneath a closely trimmed beard.

"M…my apologies, yer Grace…" she muttered, bending low and backing out of the room as a servant would. The man huffed, bitterly.

"Do I look like a blue-haired fool? His majesty is occupied…" His neck arched toward another door across the chamber, "…with the princess of Dorne." He dismissed her, turning back to the fire. "Don’t mind me. I'm just another forgotten bastard. Feel free to go about your work." So, she scurried back inside, tufting pillows and clearing away additional evidence of the night's merriment. By the time she circled close enough to smell the man's piquant cologne and see the stubble growing at his neck, he had forgotten all about her. With a gentleness learned, not innate, she reached around him, slowly raising her dosed kerchief to his face. Though he startled, she settled him by pressing in just the right spot between his shoulder blades, forcing him to inhale the heady vapors that would keep him unconscious long enough for her to sate her curiosity. His body at last slumped against hers, and she lowered him, gently enough, to the floor.

With an ear to the final door, there was nothing to discern beyond the slapping of the sea against the cliff base, and when she dared to enter, the briny night air greeted her, washing into the bedchamber from the open balcony beyond, sending the candlelight dancing over a figure, asleep in the massive bed. A woman, her hair a mass of tight, black curls, loosely held by knots of silk down her bare back, lay in state of complete repose, her bangled arm dangling off the mattress. But a shadow of regret nipped at the girl as she placed the cloth over the woman's full lips. When was the last time she had slept so soundly? Her body stretched out, instead of wrapped in ball or tight with tension? Still, if the woman was whom she believed, she should have known not to let her guard down. There were no moments of safety in this world…no place off-limits. A cough from outside broke her reverie, and certainly, there couldn't be anyone left but her intended target.

Moving soundlessly to the open door, her expectations low, she was still mildly surprised by the reed thin young man leaning over the railing, letting his dark hair whip wildly in the wind. Even in the darkness, she could make out each protrusion along his long spine.

"Come to push me over?" He lifted his feet, leaning precariously forward in a movement so reminiscent of Bran, the girl moved almost instinctively to pull him back, before drawing Needle instead, using the blade to steer him back onto the landing.

"Ah, a three-hundred-foot drop isn't enough for you? You want to make it personal? More intimate?" He turned an impish face to her, shaking out his wild hair before acquiescing to the sword. His arms rose slowly overhead as she ran Needle's point down his spry form, starting at his narrow chin and moving south to the smooth flat of his chest and stomach, resting where his trousers hung low and unlaced at his hips.

"You're rather scrawny for a king."

He laughed, leaning back against the balustrade. "Well, you're rather small, and female, for an assassin."

"I'm not here as an assassin. You have shit for guards. If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead."

"Well then, what do you want?" There was a lasciviousness to his gaze that was truly absurd for a half-naked man being held at sword point. She was of half a mind to run him in for impertinence alone. "It has been a long night, but if you give me a moment, I'm sure I can rally." Did he want to die? Prodding just under his ribs with the blunt side of her blade, she nudged him back towards the bedchamber, and he squirmed, bending his body away theatrically. "Ah! Careful. I'm quite ticklish. " Practically skipping into the darkened chamber, he flopped into the first chair she backed him to, and she concluded that he was either a complete fool or fearless. Likely both. His eyes slid, heavy-lidded, towards the bed, but she tapped the blade against his cheek, keeping his attention on her.

"She won't wake for hours, yet."

"Proof of my prowess." That sloe-eyed, lopsided grin wasn't nearly as charming as he seemed to think. "Are you _sure_ you aren't interested?" Was this truly the best contender for the Iron Throne? The most likely to overthrow the Lannister regime?

"Who are you?" She bit out the question, increasingly losing interest in the answer.

"If you've made it this far and don't know-"

"Just answer the question." She needed him to say it, so she could get this pointless venture over with.

He rolled his eyes. "Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name…etcetera etcetera etcetera."

"Aegon Targaryen's head was smashed in by the Mountain, when he was just a babe." Circling him, she pushed his moppy dark head this way and that with her free hand. "Your head is too round to have been smashed."

He laughed again. "Connington will never let me shave it. Said I'll look too much like an egg." He was still grinning up at her when she faced him again, and she regretted ever coming to Storm's End.

"Well?"

"Varys, the Spider, swapped me with a tanner's babe, and smuggled me out of King's Landing before the Lannister army invaded. Again, you could have gotten this information without taking the trouble-"

"It was no trouble at all. Like I said, you have shit for guards."

"Well, what do you want, then?" He asked again, crossing his arms with a pout. "It's getting quite late, and Conn will expect me to be at council and I'd like some time in the practice yard before then…"

"What are you doing here?"

"Well…is that not obvious?" He eyed the bed once more, smirking at the prone beauty. "A better question is, what are _you_ doing here?" She tickled his side again with the blade and his knees jerked up. "Agh! You don't fight fair!"

"People who fight fair, die. What are you doing in the Stormlands? In Westeros? What are your intentions?" He peered up at her, exasperated, but she butted him again before he had a chance to say something stupid. "I want to hear it in your own words."

"I'm here to take back the Iron Throne." His tone was bored and annoyed, his eyes fixed on the still open balcony.

"Why? To avenge your father and grandfather?"

His body lost its languor at once, and he sat forward, his bony chest pressing into the blunt edge of her blade. "I'd let those pricks die all over again, if I had the opportunity." Dark eyes glared up at her, and it was the most interesting thing she'd heard all day. "Rheagar Targaryen's body should have been left to rot in the Trident forever, for what he did to my mother. I take the Iron Throne to avenge Elia Martel and my sister, Rhaenys…and to bring peace to a land torn apart by lions, stags and wolves."

She snorted, lowering her blade. "Wolves? Your father raped Lyanna Stark. Your grandfather murdered Rickard and Brandon Stark! It was dragons who tore this land apart! The wolves had nothing to do with it." His eyes narrowed at her outburst, and he stood, taking a step towards her, disregarding the raised sword.

"I think the question is, who are _you_?" He asked, taking another step closer. "What do _you_ want, dark sister?"

"I'm Arya Stark, of Winterfell, and I'm trying to decide if you are complete idiot or not, before I offer to help you kill Cersei Lannister and Gregor Clegane." She was unsure what reaction she expected, but it certainly wasn't what she received. At once, Aegon collapsed with a muttered curse, sinking into the rug in a boneless heap.

"Ahhh, a she-wolf of Winterfell." He chuckled, rolling on the floor for a moment, melodramatically, before sitting up with a start to stare up at her. "You're a long way from home."

\---

She's not sure what compelled her to such idiocy, but by the time the sun had crested the restless sea outside, Arya had somehow agreed to stay on with Aegon Targaryen's campaign, to help him overthrow the Lannisters, and retake the Iron Throne for House Targaryen. Not only that, but she had agreed to be the newest member of his Kingsguard…again, idiocy.

"I'm not swearing any fealty on behalf of the north or House Stark." She warned.

"What Starks? You've led me to believe you’re the only one left." Aegon was lying on the rug before a freshly awakened fire in the hearth, picking at leftover food from the previous night's festivities, still shirtless, and completely unconcerned with the fact that Arya had drugged his companions.

"Well…my sister still lives, as far as I know, and I have a brother, bastard-born, in the Night's Watch." She sat opposite him, tense and tired, observing this strange blue-haired, blue-eyed king.

"Your sister is a Lannister now…so, again, you're the last Stark." He shook himself, rising to his feet. "But no matter, I require nothing more from you now, than what we've already agreed upon, my lady. You join my kingsguard. We take King's Landing, and by the time I'm sitting on the Iron Throne, you won't be glaring daggers at me anymore, and I'll have your love _and_ your fealty…" Another salacious wink, and she shook her head in disgust.

"I'll join your kingsguard, but only so long as I decide you're the best option for the Iron Throne…as soon as someone better comes forth," and of this, she had no doubt, "I'll take my leave of you." In truth, while the lanky man-child before her showed little promise of being a king, the idea of being a member of a kingsguard spoke to the child that Arya had once been at Winterfell, the child who longed to share this turn of events with her brother, Bran.

Aegon only laughed again, seemingly unconcerned with her skepticism and her meager loyalties. "Well then, my lady, I suppose we both have our work cut out for us. Come, the sun rises, and with it, Jon Connington, my Hand. I'll introduce you."

"I'm not a lady."

He smirked. "Whatever you say, Stark." They picked their way through the subsequent chambers, Aegon having a good laugh at each passed out form, though he paused at the youngest girl with the braid, long enough to cover her with a blanket.

"My cousin, Elia." He whispered. "They will wake up unharmed, I presume?"

"They'll be no worse for wear than they would have been already, going by the number of bottles consumed." Arya gestured around the room, and the king nodded, satisfied. When they stepped by his slumped guard outside, Aegon again paused, shaking his head.

"Well, I see you've met Ser Rolly Duckfield, my other kingsguard…" Arya snorted, and Aegon turned to her, pensive. "Conn wasn't too happy about his appointment, but he's a bonny brave fighter in the field, and he's had my back since long before I became Aegon" She quirked her brow in confusion, but he ignored her. "Let's hope you prove slightly more effective in the areas where he is lacking."

She grinned, her first of the long night. "Oh, I will." Earlier, she told him that she had trained at the House of Black and White, half-expecting him to immediately doubt her, but he had leaned forward, eager to hear her stories of the faceless men, which she of course, refused to indulge him with. Still, he hadn't questioned the assertion, and Arya was baffled by his lack of guile or distrust. So, when he asked her to join his kingsguard, it was an easy post to accept, for she'd be surprised if his reign lasted a fortnight based on what she'd observed in the last few hours alone.

Jon Connington, however, was not a man without guile and had plenty of skepticism to spare. Aegon had barely presented Arya to the other blue-haired man, the one from the great hall, now eating porridge in his solar, before he was dragging the king to the other side of the room to whisper angrily at him. Several minutes of hushed argument later, and Arya was once again introducing herself and her history before the older man.

"What do you want, girl?"

"I already told you. I want to avenge my family and bring ruin to House Lannister."

He scowled at his king, who interjected. "You told me you wanted me to appoint guards from noble families. It doesn't get much more noble than House Stark, Conn." The scowl deepened.

"She's a girl, Aegon. Is this a joke to you, boy?"

"She trained as a Faceless man! She got past Duck and Arianne's guards with ease."

The older man raised his gloved hand as if to wipe it across his face, before dropping it abruptly back to his side. "I believe that says more about your choice in companions than her skill. Aegon, you must be _smarter_ than this! I'm not going to be here, forever cleaning up-"

"Look, if you want me to try out or something, I will.” Arya offered. "I'll happily fight whomever you choose." Both men looked at her now, one with a look of incredulous disgust, the other pure delight.

Aegon responded. "Of course! That will settle it nicely, then. Jon, if she proves herself in the practice yard, will that appease you?" The older man only stared at her another long moment, before narrowing his eyes a fraction.

"If that’s what it takes to put you off this nonsense, very well, though I don't know what man of honor would take on a girl, and a highborn one at that." So, he didn't doubt her name, just her ability. Arya found this curious, but before she could question it, she was summarily dismissed and led to an empty chamber by a serving girl to await her trial.

\---

She woke with a start when the handle rattled where she'd propped a chair against it.

"Lady Arya? I've brought you some food." The voice on the other side of the door was low and feminine, and the girl opened the door, finding the septa waiting on the other side with a plate of ham and biscuits. "Ah, you are a Stark." Her violet eyes crinkled in a friendly smile, and the girl stepped back, cautious.

"Do you know my family?" There was nothing familiar about the woman who swept in, placing the food at the table, nodding.

"In another life, my love, I knew your uncle Brandon, your aunt Lyanna…and your father. You have their look, clear as day." The girl frowned at the endearment and the older woman did not offer more explanation, pivoting instead to the girl's upcoming task. "You may call me Lemore. I'll escort you to the practice yard once you've eaten and changed…do you need proper attire? It may be hard to find anything in your size…" She assessed Arya's servant garb skeptically, but the girl shook her head.

"I have what I need." The woman nodded before leaving Arya to break her fast alone. The girl wolfed down the ham, forgoing the biscuits that would only weigh her down. When the septa returned, Arya had changed into her leather doublet, thick tan pants, and leather boots. She had pulled her short hair back in a tight knot at her neck and stretched carefully, fully aware that she hadn't fought since recovering from her last standoff with the Faceless men which had left her with multiple cracked ribs, a reopened gut wound, two sprained ankles and an acute understanding of both her body's limitations and her own will to live. Despite all of that, she still wagered she'd have a few advantages in the upcoming bout.

They found the practice yard, lively with men sparring and milling about in small clusters. On one side, an awning had been erected, under which lay an array of cushions and low tables where the girl spied the beauty from Aegon's bed, lounging with her similarly recovered companions. The king stood near them, toying with a longbow, dressed in half-laced practice leathers. In the light of day, Arya could see the brilliant silver hair growing at his temple underneath the grown-out gaudy blue, a vivid contrast to the burnished golden tone of his skin.

"Stark! You are here at last!" He gamboled over to her side, placing an affectionate kiss on the septa's cheek before waving the older woman off towards the shelter. "Come, little wolf. After this morning's embarrassment, Connington has decided it's time I fill a few more spots on my guard. My cousin, Arianne, has two men who are eager to bid for one." He leaned down, whispering conspiratorially in her ear. "In truth, they are quite put out by your stunt last night…you've wounded their pride _most terribly_." Raising his voice, he continued. "And then Elia insisted on being considered as well, since she is near the same age as yourself. So, the field is quite crowded now." He looked positively gleeful as they approached the shelter's inhabitants. Two of the young men that Arya had drugged the previous night were now standing at the ready; the handsome one who had spoken to her by the fire was dressed in simple leathers while another stood stiffly in full plate armor. As Aegon introduced them as Daemon Sand and Ser Garibald Shells, the woman from Aegon's bed spoke up from where she reclined under the shade with the other lady from last night, both swathed in bright silks and gold jewelry. 

"My men are eager to put the wolf bitch in her place." Her voice was husky and venomous. Arya eyed her olive skin, a near match to Aegon's, and her black hair, oiled and dressed in fine chains of gold that crisscrossed her brow while more hung, heavy around her neck, dipping into her low-cut silk vest. "I am eager for it as well. Dorne does not take kindly to northern trash threatening their princesses." She hissed, her dark, kohl-lined eyes narrowing. Arya stilled, staring back at the brazen woman.

"Easy, coz. Stark shares in our cause against the Lannisters. How does the saying go? An enemy of my enemy is my-" The beautiful woman huffed as the king leaned down, finishing his sentence with a whisper in her ear, but when he drew back Arya could see the corners of her mouth turned up in a becoming smirk.

"Very well, _coz."_ The woman's voice dropped lower still, as she drew a ringed knuckle down Aegon's hollow cheek, before turning her tiger eyes back to Arya. "Just remember, girl. House Martell remembers." Arya did not have time to ponder her words, for at that moment Jon Connington approached with a portly, grey man; grey eyes with grey hair and a grey elephant pinning his dusty cloak across his broad breast.

"Let's get this farce over with then. Come on." Lord Connington waved the contenders to him, Aegon trailing behind. "This is Harry Strickland, commander of the Golden Company. He, the king, and I will be assessing your fitness for service." He frowned at Arya once again. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." She replied, and the young man in the armor snorted.

"A cleverness with poison does not a warrior make, girl. Go sit beneath the shade with the other women before you burn that fair northern skin of yours and bring dishonor on all our houses by forcing us to fight a girl."

Before she could reply, Lord Connington responded. "She'll pair up against Elia, Ser Shell. We'll let the girls have their moment before you and Sand spar. No need to take more offence. Now where has that dreaded child got off to now?" Arya stayed silent as the men looked around for the missing Elia. Their doubt and dismissal were not surprising to her, nor did they affect her…not anymore. She had moved past the need for blind praise or approval long ago, but when she spied the young girl with the long black braid bounding out of the armory, a look of excited determination writ large across her expressive face, Arya's mouth turned sour. It was as if she were watching a ghost of herself glide across the practice yard, eager to impress Robb and Jon and Theon with her archery skills, only to be dismissed at once by Ser Rodrik. Arya was in no mood to prove a point to these strangers at the expense of the girl before her. 

As if sensing her change in mood, Aegon materialized over her shoulder, whispering. "Elia Sand is my uncle Oberyn's daughter. Arianne tells me she has spent more of her fourteen years astride a horse than on her own two feet and she favors the lance, though with your training, I'm sure you'll hold your own."

Arya glared up at him. "That isn't a concern, your Grace."

"Then what is?" His face was so openly confused that she knew he wouldn't understand, so she turned to the rack of practice weapons as the other girl reached past her for a lance.

“Vengeance for House Martell, wolf-bitch!” Elia sneered, brushing past, and annoyance pinched at Arya’s shoulders. Vengeance for what? The Starks had nothing to do with Elia or Rhaenys' deaths…at least not directly. Arya only sighed, feigning indecision, as she watched from the corner of her eye as the other girl spun and thrust the lance experimentally. She held it one handed, as one would astride a horse, her feet a little too close together, her movements flashy but exposed. Arya opted for a wooden short sword, muttering a suggestion to the girl.

"The shields are stacked against the wall." The girl eyed her suspiciously a moment before seeing the sense in Arya's words and running to grab a small rounded buckler. It wouldn't help her, for it took but a moment for Arya to see the girl had no sense of how to use it, but it wouldn't leave her so obviously exposed, at least. Connington called out to them to take their time warming up before the bout, and Arya stared as he, Strickland, and the king strolled back under the awning to relax with the women. Daemon Sand and Ser Garibald had chosen their own weapons of choice, greatswords, of course, and were swinging them in wide arcs as they practiced, Daemon with considerably more skill than the armored knight.

Arya, seeing no reason to reveal much at present, dropped her sword back in the rack, before taking up the exercises that Syrio Forel had taught her so very long ago. Even the House of Black and White hadn't offered a better foundation of movements than her old dancing master. So, she closed her eyes, rolling on the balls of her feet before spinning into a routine so familiar she had dreamed of it countless times and could do it anywhere; a ship's cabin, a seawall, blind in a dusty practice yard surrounded on all sides by hostile men and women. The pattern calmed her, and when she completed her second round of it, murmuring the names on her list, she realized that the other girl's flamboyant warm-up had stopped, and she was watching Arya with haughty eyes.

"Ready?" Arya asked, and the girl nodded.

"Always." If they were alone, Arya would have knocked her out at once, just to prove a point, but she eyed the gathering under the awning, unable to bring the girl unnecessary embarrassment before her cousins. After Lord Connington recited the rules for the match, the girls squared off as the men in the yard quit their practice to gape at the novelty of two women sparring. While Elia performed a flourish before the sheltered spectators, Arya observed her silently, shifting the short sword to her non-dominant hand, and placing the other behind her back. When Elia at last turned her way, she was crouched in ready defense.

“You forgot your shield.” The girl spat, launching into an enthusiastic attack that Arya sidestepped at once. She did not answer as the girl continued to taunt her, repeating the same few assault maneuvers again and again. Each time Arya parried or evaded, struck by a vision of herself that never came to pass…an Arya who had continued her dancing lessons with Syrio Forel in secret, always practicing but never learning the urgency that only a fight for your life can teach you…never crossing the threshold from playing to drawing blood or ending a life. Out of the corner of her eye, she at last sensed the shift in their audience as the men grew bored, turning back to their own practice, and something loosened within her. On the next attack, she sidestepped before cutting back to land a blow to Elia’s side. The girl grunted, catching herself as she stumbled forward. When Arya turned, Lord Connington and Harry Strickland frowned back. Aegon was too busy flirting with the princess to take note.

“Again.” Lord Connington ordered, and Arya and Elia faced off once more. Each time, Arya would start on the defensive, striking a blow as soon as Elia exposed herself. The girl showed promise, but it was clear no one had spent much energy on refining her technique, and Arya suspected that much of it had been learned by observation. She knew from experience that observation could only get you far, so she started muttering tips to the other girl after each blow.

“Don’t lunge.”

“Don’t go where I lead you.”

Each time the girl would huff in frustration, but she seemed to take note, modifying her attacks, learning from her mistakes. Still, this tortured training was doing nothing to prove Arya’s worth as a member of Aegon’s kingsguard and she knew it. After knocking Elia to her butt for the third time, Arya glared back at the Hand who ended the misery.

“I think that’s enough. Elia, a lance is a poor choice of weapon off a horse. That’s why knights carry swords. Get yourself cleaned up, girl.” He turned, scowling at Arya as if she were a problem he didn’t know quite how to solve. “And all you’ve proven, is that you’ve a lick more sense than the girl and have sparred once or twice. Ser Shells, get over here. You’re up against Lady Stark.”

“My Lord! I object. I could not in good conscious fight against a lady-“ Before the pompous fool could protest further, Aegon rolled up to his feet, from where he had been tossing grapes into his and Arianne’s mouths.

“I’ll fight her.” He cracked his neck, audibly, before lacing up his leather jerkin. “It would be my honor to spar with the good lady.” He smiled, arms wide, and his Hand only deepened his frown before giving a curt nod. The knight floundered for an apology, but Aegon waved him away dismissively, turning to Arya.

“Any objections, Lady Stark?”

Arya shrugged. “I told you, I’m not a lady and that I’d fight whomever.” Still, it was hard to hide her interest as she watched the king transform. Throwing off the mantle of coltish folly, his whole body seemed to stretch and tighten as he moved to the weapon rack with purpose, revealing a new grace in his long limbs that hadn’t been apparent even a moment prior. Arya quickly assessed that the short sword would no longer suffice. When she exchanged it for a long, light staff, he chose similarly, twirling his pole in a quick, controlled flourish, before bowing to the crowd that had once again formed around them. “Don’t go easy on _me_ , Stark. I promise that I’m playing to win.” He murmured before they separated to opposite sides of the circle. Excitement rippled down her spine.

They came together in a pulse. Aegon was fast and aggressive, and his reach was long. Still, Arya had mastered the staff, blind. She knew the whistle one made as it came hurtling towards her face and just how it would feel to send Aegon flying with a thrust to his sternum. It was clear that his previous opponents were other men, for he was slow to defend her attacks from below, and when she slid beneath him, cutting back to take out his legs from behind he somersaulted forward with a harsh laugh.

“Again!” He yelled, whipping back to her without waiting for her to scrabble to her feet. She raced away, giving herself time and space, leading him to a wall which she used to propel herself up and over Aegon in a nimble flip. He laughed again, turning to face her. “I knew you could fly, Stark.” He shouldn’t have wasted the breath, for she thrust the butt of her pole into his chest, pinning him to the wall. He only shouted, “Again!”

Back and forth, they raced, and for every blow she landed, he began to return them in kind, and she quickly lost track of who had more hits as they danced across the yard. Vaguely, she was aware that the crowd had shifted, moving to the edges of their ever-widening discourse, all eyes trained on the dragon and the wolf. Only the sounds of Aegon and Arya’s heavy breathing, punctuated by the clang of their staffs and Aegon’s occasional exclamations, broke the silence. Arya’s muscles began to burn, but there was a lightness in her chest, buoying her forward. Never before had sparring been this _fun_. The dragon king was a wonderful match for her in speed and creativity, and for once, she needn’t worry about a blow shattering bone, for while the practice staffs were bruising, they were not the merciless oak the Waif used to break Arya and rebuild her into No One. Aegon seemed just as delighted as she, laughing when she landed a blow across his chest and when he surprised her by dropping one arm from his staff to flip her bodily over his back. When she tackled low, grabbing his thigh to roll him onto his back, he at last let his head fall back on the hard-packed dirt with a heavy, beleaguered sigh.

“Enough, she-wolf. You’ve won your post.” He groaned, as she collapsed at his side, her heart pounding out of her chest, her eyes staring up into the hazy sky, her mind wondrously, gloriously clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> So excited to have his first chapter of Know the Love - Part II posted!
> 
> Just as heads up on this fic: it will be multi-POV, though I plan on sticking to Arya, Sansa, and Jon exclusively (I don't want things to get too too complicated). I'll be updating tags/characters/ratings as they come into the story. For those of you here for the Jonsa and Jon's parentage reveal, it's coming very soon. I needed to introduce Arya's storyline as hers will be central to the plot in Part II. 
> 
> This chapter takes place sometime during the events of Part I, prior to Jon and Sansa re-taking of Winterfell. Arya is unaware of Jon and Sansa's efforts at this point. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reading and commenting. Seeing the positive feedback makes my day! I'm interested to know what you think of Arya, here. I was nervous to write her, but I think I have handle of where she is going now.


	2. A Belligerence of Lace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa

Sansa woke to the now familiar whimpers of one of Jeyne's nightmares. She turned, gently running her fingers down her friend's terrified, tear-streaked face.

"Jeyne." She whispered. "I'm here. You aren't alone." In response, the other woman's brow slowly relaxed, and her ragged breathing resumed the normal rhythm of sleep. Sansa watched Jeyne slumber, having no such luck herself. She had tossed for hours the previous night and she knew she'd not find rest again now, despite it being the very early hours of the morning. She could scarcely believe what transpired the previous night along the parapet, her mind turning back to her conversation with the king. His forgiveness and his warmth had taken her by complete surprise and now, as she watched the light of dawn slowly bring her bedchamber back to color, she wondered if she hadn't dreamt it after all. Surely her mind had conjured the man who listened to her with so much affection in his eyes. It was but a figment of her imagination that he kissed her brow; warm lips lingering as he stroked her cheeks, seemingly unwilling to let her go. She groaned into her pillow in frustration at herself and her silly, pathetic heart…adding meaning to her recollection of last night as if in response to the growing despondency she felt as exhaustion and loneliness filled the places left void by Val and Ned's departure and Jon's abandonment.

She had known. She had known how much her betrayal would hurt him and she had tried to steel herself for his rage. Expecting passionate anger, she instead endured several weeks of Jon's bitterly cold indifference, and somehow, that had been so much worse. By withdrawing from her so abruptly after their confrontation in the godswood, it was like Jon had knocked the wind right out of her, stealing the very air from her lungs. And then, there had been no time to catch her breath. There was so much work to be done at Winterfell. So much of the castle had been damaged or mismanaged that even working practically non-stop, Sansa felt like she would never catch up. There was so much she didn't know. The library had been destroyed, and with it, all records of previous winters. Gone were the logbooks she desperately needed to understand how far behind they truly were in preparing for the long night ahead. She had always been dismal with figures and without any references, she was sure her calculations were veering quite off the mark, but she couldn't fail. It was the one task Jon had given her; the one chance she had to prove her usefulness to him once more.

So, each night, after a long day of cobbling the castle back into something resembling function, and an even longer evening of trying to manage Baelish and all the other lords who wanted something from her while also ignoring the pangs of jealousy that pricked each time Lady Wyn giggled at something the king said, or Jon leaned in close to Lady Jonelle, eager to hear _her_ opinion, Sansa returned to her rooms and went back to work. She'd pour over her ledger, double and triple-checking each sum in the dying candlelight, stubbornly holding back her tears, even summoning the strength to laugh off Jeyne's concerns about her lack of rest, because she could not fail. She had ruined her first reconciliation with family by twisting it into something dark and shameful, and of course Jon would never forgive her for it, but that didn't mean she could stop trying to earn his trust anyway. And now, just when her resolve had started to waver, when her spirits had dipped so low that she'd been foolish enough to lash out at Petyr, Jon had extended a peace offer…It had to have been a dream. She was so desperate for love, that she had convinced herself that Jon had forgiven her. Pathetic. She was pathetic.

Her self-loathing was broken by the sound of her chambermaids entering to prepare for the morning, and Sansa rose from the bed, shaking off her self-pity. She had no time for her hidden hopes or endless regret. There was much to be done this day and making amends to Lord Baelish before he could retaliate for yesterday's performance was at the top of her list. She had not planned to confront him as she did, but something had finally snapped as she listened to yet another of his veiled threats against her brothers. Who knew how much damage her impulsiveness had caused? She could not afford Baelish turning against her when Jon's holds on both Winterfell and the North were still so new and tenuous.

Her movement, as she wrapped herself in a warm robe, woke Jeyne as well. "Good morning, Princess." The young woman blinked up at her for a moment, still dazed with sleep before suddenly springing forward. "Heavens, the trials start today." Her hands shook as she attempted to drape a shawl over her thin shoulders. Sansa rounded the bed to assist her.

"They do." She soothed. "But Theon's is not set yet, and I already promised you that I will speak for him, Jeyne."

"It's too much, my princess." Jeyne's beautiful brown eyes started to tear up. "I can't ask that of you. Not after what he did to your family. It isn't right."

Sansa huffed. "You want him to be pardoned, do you not?"

"Well, yes…"

"So, I will speak for him." Sansa steadfastly refused to bring any more pain to her dear friend, and if that meant pardoning the man who had almost destroyed her home and who had driven her younger brothers from the security and safety of Winterfell and into a cruel and unjust world…so be it. She had visited Theon in the dungeons several times now and seen the ravages of his mind and body. Further punishment wouldn't be justice, nor would it reverse the damage he had wrought. It wouldn't bring Bran home from beyond the Wall or magically turn Rickon from the scared wild boy he had apparently become into the young lord he needed to be. Sansa wrote to her youngest brother regularly, attempting to pour as much love and reassurances as she could into each raven's scroll, even though she had been promptly informed by Lord Manderly that Rickon was both illiterate and uninterested in listening to or dictating a response to any of her messages. Winterfell needed to return to some semblance of normalcy as soon as possible so that she could bring her brother home. She would not have him here while Jon dispensed justice to the Bolton and Frey traitors, nor could she stomach being kept from him much longer.

"You shouldn't have to speak for Theon. I…I should be the one." Jeyne's voice quavered at the thought and Sansa frowned. Her friend was not strong enough to join her in the dining hall. Surely, she wasn't ready to speak on Theon's behalf before a panel of lords and a king who all wanted him dead. Sansa would not allow it.

"Jeyne." She took her friend's hands. "You don't have to. Please, let me do this for you." She led the young woman to the table, now laid out with a small breakfast for the princess and her lady-in-waiting.

"You already do too much." Jeyne huffed, making a sour face at Sansa, who rejoiced that the girl was recovering enough to push back at her. The Jeyne of her childhood had been playful and even a little petulant and it broke her heart seeing how fear and pain had pushed that feisty will out of her friend. Each sign that it was coming back renewed Sansa's hope that she _could_ make things right. Jeyne could heal. Ned could heal. Winterfell could heal…if they were allowed the room to do so. She would not allow an ill-conceived belligerence from Lord Glover or a flare of Jon's temper snuff out the spirit that had so recently re-emerged in Jeyne. She would not allow it.

"I do my duty." She responded, swiping a pear from the table before allowing her maids to descend upon her, divesting her of her sleep clothes and readying her for the day ahead. It still felt strange to let hands that were not her own touch her and wash her and dress her again. Even though it had been her routine almost all her life, she had grown used to the independence and the solitude of being Alayne. As Princess Sansa, she was almost never alone, sleeping each night with Jeyne at her side before spending the rest of her waking hours amongst the crannogman or the northern lords, breaking for tea with Lady Wyn or Lady Jonelle, holding private audiences with Lord Baelish or being trailed surreptitiously by one of the king's men when she occasionally ventured outside the castle walls. The closest moments she got to solitude were her rare escapes to the godswood with Ghost by her side. Even then, the mournful eyes of both wolf and heart tree haunted her, following her every move as the crows circled above, mocking her with their calls. She was desperately lonely despite never actually being alone.

Ned was gone. Val was gone. Gendry was within Winterfell's walls but just as busy as she, overseeing a forge that had more work than it could keep up with, it's great furnace lit morning and night as her friend churned out weapons, armor, tools and hardware for the castle. Jeyne was lovely and dear but also traumatized and fragile. Satin was proving to be indispensable, but guilt laced through her whenever they met due to their shared betrayal of the king's trust. And Jon…well, Jon did come to her last night. By the time she was dressed, and her maids were brushing out her hair, she was certain of that, though her confidence still wavered over the degree to which he extended his forgiveness or friendship. Just as she convinced herself that it had been nothing more than a begrudging formality on his part, there was a knock on the door leading from her outer chamber to the corridor beyond.

Deft hands quickly finished pinning her hair into a soft half-up look as one of her maids went to answer the door. Sansa was just rising to her feet, when a low, masculine cough sounded at the doorway to her bedchamber. She turned and there _he_ was.

"Your Grace!" Sansa curtsied low, hiding her surprise after Jeyne's squeaky proclamation.

"Princess. Lady Poole. My apologies." He cleared his throat again. "If I am disturbing you…"

"Not at all, Your Grace." Sansa recovered, ushering him into the room, eyes darting frantically across the usually private space, and Jon paused at the threshold, looking uncertain and…was he wearing _blue_? Sansa took him in now, reveling at the young king standing before her in an open, knee length, midnight coat, trimmed in gold over close-fitting lambswool breeches and freshly polished boots.

"You aren't wearing black." She closed her mouth, cringing at her impertinent tone, but Jon smiled back. He actually smiled. With another start, she realized his hair was freshly cut, half pulled back, the loose curls reaching just past his ears. He looked…she clamped her mind shut before finishing that thought.

"While I realize I'll never be your equal in elegance, Princess, I'd be remiss if I did not attempt to look the part of a monarch, at least occasionally." His eyes moved down her form as he spoke, taking in her pale ice blue gown with its bodice of Myrish lace and cunning beading. It was one of the gowns Lord Baelish had given her moons ago, in preparation for Sansa Stark's return north and its southron styling was at odds with Sansa's usual sartorial choices. Now, she felt a mortifying heat creeping up her neck at Jon's gaze. Thankfully, he soon turned from her to Jeyne, nodding to her friend.

"Lady Poole, I apologize again, for disturbing you. I had only thought to invite the princess…both of you, really, to break your fast with me in the great hall." His eyes turned to the table holding the remnants of their breakfast. "But I see you have already dined, so I'll not overstay my welcome." He turned abruptly back into the outer chamber and before Sansa could come to her senses, it was Jeyne who called after him.

"Your Grace!" He turned back and Jeyne curtsied low. "Please, we still have plenty of food here and in truth, the princess has barely touched her plate. If it would please you, you are welcome to eat with us." Sansa gave her friend an incredulous look. Had Jeyne Poole really just invited the king to dine in her bedchamber? As if reading her thoughts, Jeyne cleared her throat. "We'll have the spread moved into the solar, where there is…more light." Sansa huffed, as Jon's ears turned pink. She took his arm, leading him into the adjacent room where there was indeed, more light.

"Gods, Sansa. I'm sorry." He whispered fervently into her ear. "I shouldn't have come. It's only that when I awoke this morning, I felt the need to see you." He caught her eye. "To make sure last night actually happened and that we are no longer at odds with one another." The relief that flooded through her was so intense that Sansa squeezed Jon's arm almost rudely, inadvertently drawing him close. She couldn't contain the smile that spread across her face in response to his warm gray eyes staring back at her and the twin grin emerging hesitantly beneath them.

"Oh Jon!" She wrapped her arms around him, for it was perfectly fine to hug him _._ He was her brother, after all. "We are not at odds." She laughed. "I woke up feeling the same. I couldn't quite bring myself to believe that you had forgiven me." She pulled back, inspecting his face. "And if you haven't, I understand…"

"Nonsense, Sansa." He pulled close again, the heat of his hands radiating through the whisper-thin lace at her back. "I'm not sure I can stay angry with you, no matter how infuriating you can be." Her whole body responded to his embrace, the stress leaving her with each exhale and in its place…a different tension, that she shied away from. Pulling away, she turning to the hearth as if to stoke it, but the fire within was burning brightly so instead she gestured awkwardly around the room.

"Thank you for granting me my mother's chambers, brother. Isn't it astonishing how little altered they are?" She braved a glance his way to find his face darkening.

"I wouldn't know. I never entered them, as a boy." _Of course, he hadn't. Dolt. Dolt. Dolt._

"Forgive me-" She started, but he shrugged her apology away, turning to inspect her desk, and before she could shut the roll-top he had her ledger in his hands, squinting down at the current page where her hasty calculations were scratched across the parchment, half of them crossed out or corrected. "Oh Jon, don’t look at that…It's not ready." She tried to grab it from him, but he blocked her with his arm, easily keeping her at bay as he read the ledger's contents. Just as his face turned from amused interest to a furrowed frown, Jeyne swept in with the maids behind her, serving plates and dishware in hand. Jon shut the book, tucking it under his arm, before smiling at Lady Poole.

"Ah, the food is here. Wonderful. I'm famished." The next hour passed surprisingly easy. Sansa had worried how Jeyne and Jon would respond to each other, but they fell into friendly conversation, even joining together to tease Sansa about her sweet tooth and reminiscing about some of Robb and Jon's more ill-conceived adventures as boys. Somehow, it had slipped her mind that the two had known each other, here in Winterfell, before. Jeyne had not traveled down to King's Landing to be Sansa's companion until Lord Stark became Robert's hand, so of course, Jeyne knew Jon as a boy. Sansa tried to push down the dark envy that soured her tongue as Jeyne and Jon laughed at a shared memory that she had taken no part in.

"When you came chasing Arya and Bran out of the crypt, all covered in flour…my poor father. I thought he'd have a heart attack then and there."

"Why? It's not like I looked like a ghost in the light of day."

"No, but then he had to venture into the crypt himself to see how much of a mess you made!" Jeyne chided, and Jon laughed ruefully.

"Ah yes. I remember he had Robb and I scraping candlewax off the Lady Lyanna and Lord Brandon's statues for days. He wouldn't let us go out riding again until they were pristine."

"Speaking of which," Sansa cut in. "I'd like to solicit the stonemason in White Harbor to complete our father's tomb as well as create one for Robb, even if it won't ever hold his body." The joy slid from her companions' faces and Sansa immediately regretted spoiling their reverie just because she hadn't been able to join in. Jon's face softened though, and he even reached across the table to place his hand over hers.

"Of course, Sansa. Robb deserves to be remembered here." His fingers squeezed around hers and she gave him a tight smile in return, but the damage was done. There was no way to recover the light-hearted mood of moments prior. Soon the king was standing to excuse himself. "Thank you for letting me break my fast with you, but I really should be going."

Sansa stood as well. "I need to be leaving as well, if I'm going to make it to the trials in time." She snatched her ledger back; which Jon had kept at his side through their meal and walked the king to the door.

"Sansa, you don't need to attend the trials." He told her, voice low, but she shook her head.

"Yes, I do. Winterfell is my home, and though you may be king, the men and women who suffered under the Boltons and Freys are no less my people than yours, Jon."

"I didn't say they were." He sounded hurt, and Sansa didn't understand why she was starting another argument with Jon. He had only just forgiven her, but fortunately he sighed, relaxing his brow. "Well, where are you off to, Princess? Allow me to escort you."

"There is no need." She hedged, and he paused in the doorway, his eyes narrowed. "I'm going to meet with Lord Baelish."

"Sansa-" He started to protest, but she straightened to her full height.

"Jon, he is still our ally, and I may have made a tactical mistake with him yesterday. I need to make amends, and that will be easier if you are not by my side when I see him next."

"Then take Ghost with you."

She averted her gaze, anticipating Jon's coming reaction. "No."

"Sansa, you should not be alone with that man." The king was leaning over her, and she could feel his frustration growing by the moment. She couldn't keep the peace between them for even one morning.

"Jon. I was alone with that man for several years. Please trust that I can manage another hour." She stared up, defiantly. "I am too much a wolf when Ghost is by my side, and Petyr requires…fewer fangs."

" _Petyr_?" Jon sneered, his eyes hard as they snaked down her gown again, and she resisted the urge to cover herself, suddenly keenly aware of her exposed collar bones and the allusion to cleavage that the neckline intimated.

"Last night you told me that we needed to trust each other. Does that trust only flow in one direction?" she challenged, her blood rising. Jeyne's voice, directing the servants as they cleared the morning's dishes away, broke through the ringing in her ears and she realized she had raised her voice to the king. Stepping back, she sought calm. "Your Grace, please trust that I will not bring dishonor to our house when I meet with Lord Baelish." She spoke the last looking down at her hands, where her thumb rubbed furiously at her palm. She would not bring _more_ dishonor, that is.

"Sansa," Jon's voice softened considerably. "I do trust you." He tilted her chin up gently with his knuckle. "It is Lord Baelish that I do not, but if you are sure this is the right course of action, then I will not argue further. Just remember what you promised me. If he touches you…"

"He won't." She gave Jon a hasty curtsy before shutting the door in his concerned face, and she really was making a wreck of their newfound amity. She just couldn't handle another moment of Jon's eyes upon her, full of worry and speculation over what Lord Baelish may or may not have done to her over the years. Shame flooded through her, imagining what his reactions would be if he learned of the liberties that Littlefinger and even Harry had taken with her in the past. Before she could stop it, her mind turned to Marillion, and the Hound, and Joffrey taunting her as the Kingsguard ripped her dress from her body…

"Sansa!" Jeyne was standing in front of her, her hands gentle on Sansa's cheeks. "Ah, there you are." She stepped back, her brown eyes sad with understanding, and Sansa bit back her tears.

"Oh Jeyne! Sometimes I wish we could run off somewhere where there are no men. Doesn't the Isle of Women sound grand?"

"It does, my lady. Maybe, one day we'll visit. Though, I must admit, Princess, I would be sad to no longer lay eyes on one as handsome as the king."

"Jeyne!" The shame Sansa was already feeling flew back into her face full force. "That is my brother you speak of." She admonished, trying vainly to temper her swirling emotions, and Jeyne laughed.

"Well, he's not my brother. And he’s grown a good deal more handsome in the years since I spied him last. He was such a _sullen_ boy. I even think the scar suits him." Jeyne's eyes twinkled, and the sight buoyed Sansa's spirts. "Plus, once upon a time, you and Robb used to play at wedding each other in the castle sept."

Sansa rolled her eyes. "We were but babes, Jeyne." Though, she grew wistful at the memory of Theon playing the Septon while Sansa was Jenny of Oldstones in her wildflower crown. She had forced Robb into playing the role of Duncan the Small. Theon made her too uncomfortable and there was no other boy to play the part. "If only we could return to that time." She sighed.

"It wouldn’t change anything. We'd just relive the same horrors, all over again." A shadow crossed Jeyne's face. "I couldn't survive them a second time."

"I want to shake my younger self." Sansa whispered. "Tell her not to go south. Not to dream of princes or noble knights. Not to believe all the songs and stories. Tell her that they are all lies."

Jeyne fingered the lace of Sansa's loose sleeves. "You couldn’t have known…And they hold a kernel of truth, my Princess. After all, you are still a beautiful maid about to marry one of those noble knights; a handsome one at that. One day, they may sing songs about you." The thought of marrying Ser Hardyng weighed on her like a stone in the gut, but Sansa realized Jeyne was attempting to bring comfort. So, she smiled back, not quite managing to bring it to her eyes.

"Jeyne, you are the one that deserves songs and a gallant knight to take you off into the sunset." She placed a kiss on her friend’s brow. "Though, he'll have to pass many tests of worthiness before I'd let him through Winterfell's gates. For you, Jeyne Poole, deserve the world."

\---

She found Lord Baelish standing on the covered bridge between the Great Keep and the armory, where she knew he liked to watch the goings-on in the yard below. He did not turn to her as she approached, his gloved hands firmly gripping the handrail.

“Heading to the armory, my Princess? In need of a weapon larger than your toy blade?” His voice was clipped and angry and Sansa almost welcomed the already frayed state of her emotions. It would be easier to play the overwhelmed princess when it was the truth.

“My lord, I was looking for you. I came to apologize for yesterday, and request your help.” He turned to her at last, haughty and contemptuous, his green eyes trailing up her skirts, where she'd let her sleeveless brocade overcoat hang open, pausing at her chest before slipping up to her face. He arched his brow.

“Well?”

She swallowed. “Perhaps, we could talk in a more private location, my lord." She pulled the ledger out from where she had held it behind her back. "I was hoping to review Winterfell's accounts with you. I'm afraid I've turned myself quite around with the figures."

He stepped closer, letting his gloved hands linger a moment over hers before taking the ledger. "Come child, let father untangle whatever predicament you've gotten yourself into." She let him lead her back into the keep, ignoring the feel of his fingers pinching at her elbow and the gall of him calling himself her father within Ned Stark's halls. They settled in a small cabinet near the Great Hall, private enough for their discussion but with an open archway to the corridor that would deter any hint of impropriety.

After a breathy apology over her dramatics from the day before, Sansa let a tear fall over her ineptitude in handling Winterfell's accounts. "My lord, no matter how I try, I cannot make sense of how to calculate our current stores against our projected need through winter. I know we'll need to import food from the South but again, I am at a loss on how we'll pay to feed and clothe our people." A show of vulnerability and an appeal to the Mockingbird's own intelligence in these matters were all that was needed for Baelish to start reviewing Sansa's accounting, pointing out areas where she had miscalculated an overage here or a deficit there.

He was only too eager to explain to her the volatility in trade due to years of war in Westeros and Daenerys Targaryen’s disruption of economies across Essos in her quest to abolish slavery. He thrived on the chaos, explaining how his personal fortune had flourished while he was Master of Coin under Robert and how, in the intervening years, he had continued to exploit men's appetites for the flesh and diversify his investments.

"At this point, my dove, Dorne, the Reach and the Vale are the only regions in Westeros with enough surplus to be reliable trade partners. The uncertain alliance between the Iron Throne and Highgarden has caused the price of wheat to skyrocket. It seems most foolhardy for the Vale to be just giving it away to the North, when there is a veritable fortune to be had in selling it elsewhere." He paused, turning his cunning green eyes to her once more as he paced, prompting Sansa to respond from where she sat, taking notes.

"Well my lord, what could the North possibly offer to entice the other kingdoms to trade with us? What assets do we have?"

He stared down at her with pity in his eyes. "Well, Princess, though the North is the largest of the kingdoms, it seems the Starks never found a way to quite tap into its bounty. Your father did very little to open up trade to the other kingdoms and I'm afraid hides and timber are not going to take you far in procuring the provisions you need." He leaned over her chair. "Luckily, little bird, you have a powerful ally in the Lord Protector of the Vale, and I have plenty of interest in continuing to nurture a very _particular_ investment of mine." The smell of mint spoiled the air between them, but Sansa soldiered on.

"My lord, the North is most grateful for your continued investment. How much help do you think we'll need from the Vale?" He turned back to her ledger, scratching over her own figures with his quill.

"Well, with your current stores used at the same rate of consumption, you won't make it nine months. If you make the changes I suggested, you could stretch it just past a year. This winter could last another six, though. The Vale needs to prepare to help the North now as well as be ready when our true ascendancy comes." He turned to her, alight in his own cunning. "Depending on how the Southron winds shift, we may also be able to draw help from the Reach and even Dorne, little dove."

"How?" She pressed, hoping for a glimpse into Baelish's vast network, and he delivered, always happy to shed light on his own brilliance.

"Just because I've been away from King's Landing for as long as you, that doesn't mean I've cut my ties, Princess. I still keep in touch with a certain thorny rose and the jewels in my pleasure houses have learned that they are payed for more than the nectar between their thighs." He outlined his network of informants and how he drew from his various sources of income to pay for back channel streams of communication and goods. For as much as he turned her stomach, Sansa was continually impressed with Littlefinger's reach. She diligently took notes as he expounded on his recommendations to stretch the North's resources and make inroads with the other kingdoms. By the time their engagement ended, Sansa realized that the trials were close to starting and she had missed luncheon.

She bid Lord Baelish a hasty goodbye, flowering her language with gratitude before she flew back to her chambers to change. Her maids were at the ready with her new dress, one of Sansa’s own design, and she hastened to slide out of her current gown.

“Easy, Princess, you’ll tear the lace.” Jeyne scolded, but Sansa only tugged harder.

“Ugh, trust me. I’ll never wear this gown again.” She slowed her impatient movements. “Though, perhaps we could sell it.”

“Tis a shame. It’s beautiful.” Jeyne murmured, but Sansa ignored her, starting to pull the pins from her hair so she could restyle it into a simple braid. Several frantic minutes later, she stood before her looking glass as one of her maids fastened the last of the buttons up the back of her new gown, black as night with a high collar echoing a man’s style. She wrapped the thick leather girdle around the small of her waist, clasping it together with two silver snarling direwolves that Gendry had made for her. Over her shoulders, Jeyne placed a gray fur mantle, completing her austere look.

“You look like a warrior, my Princess.” Jeyne whispered; her eyes luminous.

“Good. We can’t erase the harm these monsters caused, but we can certainly make them pay.” Sansa stared back at her steely reflection another moment, before exiting her chambers. Satin waited for her in the corridor, walking with her to the Great Hall.

“Well?” He asked.

“Baelish was helpful.” She whispered back. “He had some good ideas of where we can cut expenses and stretch our current stores, though some of his methods were too draconian toward the smallfolk, and we’ll have to apply his principles against our actual figures before I’ll be ready to bring a proposal before the king, but I think we may have enough to last year and a half before applying any aid we can get from the other kingdoms.”

“We can review the accounts tomorrow.” Satin nodded, escorting her toward the gallery behind the Great Hall, instead of the main entrance. When she gave him a questioning look, he only smiled. “The king indicated that you’d sit with him during the trial.”

“Yes, of course.” Before entering, she paused looking over the steward, appraisingly. “Satin, do you know a Ser Lyn Corbray?”

He waited a moment before responding. “Yes, of course Your Grace. I make it my business to know anyone who passes within the castle walls.”

Before she could lose her resolve, she pressed forward. “Satin, I am not asking you to do anything that I would not, but I think that you,” she struggled with how to form the words, “may have more luck getting close to him than…others would, and as Baelish’s man, it’d be good for us to know what he gets up to.” She could feel her face heat up, but the beautiful man before her only smiled wickedly in response.

“Say no more, my Princess. Consider it done.”

“Thank you, Satin.” She squeezed his arm. “And truly, I am not asking you to do anything…” He cut her off with a wink and finger to her lips before he opened the door to the Great Hall, ushering her inside. The room had been cleared of all tables except the High Table, where the king sat alone, a single chair at his side. He too, had changed back to his usual black, Sansa's cloak over his shoulders, and his crown firmly in place. In the center of the room, on their knees were Lord Aenys Frey and three other men that Sansa could only assume were his bannermen. Lady Maege Mormont was standing before the sorry looking lot, reciting their list of accused crimes, while the sides of the hall were filled with the other northern lords and ladies, wildings, and men-at-arms all watching on, silently.

At Sansa’s entrance however, the king turned, rising to his feet and Maege halted her speech as all eyes moved to the princess. She murmured an apology for her tardiness in low tones to the king when she approached, but he only smiled warmly back, helping her into her seat before retaking his own. 

“Carry on, Lady Mormont.” He instructed in a commanding tone, and as the head of Bear Island continued the list of the Freys' many offenses, Jon reached for Sansa beneath the table, taking her gloved hand in his. Her heart settled as she felt the promise laced between their fingers. Winterfell was theirs. The North was theirs, and together they would bring justice to their many enemies. She met his eyes briefly, finding strength in those fathomless black depths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Mother's Day! 
> 
> I meant to participate in the Jonsa drabblefest, but got caught up in reading an epic Starwars fic after being disappointed in The Rise of Skywalker....that gave me fresh inspiration to write the next chapter of KTL, and here we are another 5000+ words later. I did originally plan to write Jon's reveal, but that is going to be from Jon's POV, and I just couldn't go that many chapters without checking in with Sansa again. Jon's chapter is coming up next, though.
> 
> I hope you all don't mind, and I really love all the comments you give. They inspire me to keep writing. Hope everyone is staying safe and sane!
> 
> \--  
> And a note about age and timelines. I've aged up the Starks a bit from canon, assuming more time for Sansa and Arya in both the Vale and Braavos, but I did not bother changing other characters ages so far. In this story some of the relevant ages are as follows: 
> 
> Sansa: 17  
> Jon: 20  
> Ara: 15 (close to 16)  
> Aegon: 21  
> Arianne: 23  
> Elia Sand: 14
> 
> Also, I'm not going to be too particular about time when I jump between Arya's storyline and Sansa/Jon's before they eventually meet up, so Arya's initial chapters are happening prior to the current Jon/Sansa story, but they'll all eventually converge. 
> 
> I hope that makes sense!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. A King's Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Descriptions of Violence (beheading) - begins just after "Winter is Coming". Ends before "With a whisper..."

Storming into his solar, Jon shrugged out of his coat, wadding it into a ball, before heaving it into the corner. "Gods, that woman!”

"So, I can presume breakfast went well, then." Satin called from where he'd been writing at the desk, as Jon paced before the fire.

He kicked at the rack of logs. "She's driving me to an early death. Why does she have to be so stubborn?" His steward chose wisely to ignore the question, laying his quill down carefully before rising to pick up Jon's discarded coat.

"I thought she'd like this,” he mused. "She gave me the fabric, after all."

Jon groaned, landing hard across the floor. He could not find the words to explain how Sansa twisted him. He'd tossed half the night, second-guessing everything about their conversation along the wall, and when the first light of dawn crept into his room, he knew that he must see her again as soon as possible. Their tepid walk back to each other under an inky sky wasn't nearly enough. While he had offered his forgiveness, he had also lectured and half-scolded her over Baelish's behavior, as if it were her fault the lord was a pig. She didn't need his absolution. She needed to hear how brave and clever she had been in winning back Winterfell, even though the method about stopped his heart. He should have offered sympathy and reassurances over Ned and condolences over Robb and her father and her mother. Gods, he hadn't even acknowledged their losses yet. Instead of being there for her in her first weeks home, he had skulked in the shadows like the boy he used to be, while she managed what must have been a maelstrom of emotions with the extraordinary grace that was her signature.

When Satin had entered his bedchamber a short time later, Jon had assaulted his poor steward in a flurry of rabid emotion, explaining that he had to see the princess at once and make amends. Thank the gods, Satin responded by dumping a bucket of cold water over Jon's head before pushing him into a chair in front of the hearth. The good man threatened to dump another bucket if the king tried to barge in on the sleeping girl and scare her half to death before she had time to rise and properly prepare for the day. While Jon's spirits cooled, Satin trimmed his hair and beard, and pulled out the coat he'd been pushing on the king for weeks before finally allowing Jon to leave his own chambers and practically skid down the private staircase that led to Sansa.

Then he saw her and she was such a vision of loveliness in a delicate lace gown that kissed over her skin like morning frost, her blazing hair spilling down along her neck in graceful curls, that for one absurd moment he wondered if perhaps she had dressed for _him_ , just like he had for her. Like an idiot, he had completely forgotten that Jeyne Poole spent each night with the princess and of course she had a small menagerie of lady's maids flitting around her chambers, attending to her fire and her breakfast and he couldn't very well confess his devotion in front of them, so he spent an awkward hour trying to put Jeyne at ease, yet still somehow managing to make Sansa sorrowful. Then, attempting to excuse himself before he soured her mood further, he learned who she had _actually_ dressed for and now Jon was back where he began, arguably more agitated and feeling utterly useless.

"It's one thing for her to tolerate his presence when he's constantly on her like a shadow," he burst into speech mid-thought. "But to seek him out! Dressed like _that!_ " He rose to his elbows, glaring at his steward imploringly.

"I can only presume, since you can't be bothered to paint a full portrait of the situation, that you are referring to Lord Baelish, and Sansa's intentions to discuss Winterfell's accounts with him." Satin didn't even look up from where he was once more writing, and Jon wondered if he would always be the last to know the princess's intentions.

"Why would she discuss the accounts with him? I'll discuss the accounts with her! Does no one remember that I was once a steward and Lord Commander of the Night's Watch? Does that experience count for nothing? And again, why did she have to discuss the accounts dressed like a…like a…"He couldn't find the adequate words to complete the thought, for Sansa had been radiant, of course, but in a way that made his ears burn and his mouth go dry. Satin finally spared him a glance; his eyes ruthless.

"Your sister is a lovely woman your Grace, but as I seem to recall from your blabbering this morning, you have finally decided to trust her again, have you not?" His head tilted to the side, causing a lock of coal black hair to fall across his face, and Jon burned in resentment over the man’s unblemished good looks. There couldn't be more than a year's difference in their ages, yet Jon sometimes felt like a haggard old ogre beside his comely steward.

"Yes, so?" He huffed, scratching roughly at his scar.

"So, trust her. She's as smart as she is beautiful and if you want to discuss Winterfell's accounts with her so badly, just tell her. I'm sure she'll welcome the discussion. Its nearly all she thinks about, as far as I can tell."

Jon groaned. "I don't know why I bother keeping you on. You're her co-conspirator, after all. Of course, you side with her."

Satin laughed at this, sweeping his hair back artfully. "It's true, my liege. In truth, I'm still not sure why my head's not being threatened with the chopping block like the other traitors, after my flagrant disobedience."

"Because then I'd have to watch another man learn not to flinch at the sight of my bare chest and sour moods, and I don't have time for that." Jon grumbled. His steward was the epitome of deference and courtesy when others were present, but the moment that he and the king were alone, he was Jon’s black brother once more, impertinent and free with his opinions, of which he had many. Most of the time the king welcomed his hubris. "Gods, I need to hit something. Satin, fetch my gambeson and my sword."

"Am I your intended target?"

"No." He rolled over, pushing to his feet inelegantly.

"Fine, but you do realize the trials start in a few hours, and you’re the key attendant." Satin held the gambeson up for Jon to shove his arms through.

"Aye, and I'll be a better judge once I've knocked Tormund off his feet a time or two. If I don't, I'm just as likely to say, ' _Burn them all.'_ " Satin never flinched at Jon's darker humors and for that, the man was worth his weight in gold. For that, Jon would forgive him his good looks and faulty loyalty. After all, if given the choice between himself and Sansa, he would choose her every time as well.

Once the king was dressed in his leathers, he stalked from the castle and out the south gate where Ghost materialized from the west, a smattering of dried blood at his snout. He followed as the direwolf sniffed Tormund out in the center of the wilding camp where he sat beside the red priest, Thoros, drinking from a ram's horn and talking rubbish, like always.

"Get off your fat, soggy bottom, Tormund, and show me what ruin you can bring besides what your endless prattle does to our tired ears."

The great rogue rose, stretching his back in a way that puffed out his stomach. "Ah, the little crow has come to play at last. Grown tired of your crown and your castle so soon? Or are you sick of watching that pretty sister of yours pine after that dimpled fucker in the shiny plate?"

Jon barely gave the man a chance to grab for his axe before he was upon him, sending the others sitting around the fire scrambling for safety. Tormund howled, swinging at Jon with enthusiasm and soon the two were kissing steel. Tormund was slower than he used to be, and more cautious, but Jon still loved fighting the wilding for he was clever, and he was a cheat, at least by the standards by which Jon had been raised at swords. Tormund had no qualms about attacking when his opponent was already down, or his sword was dropped. He'd call other wildings in to join the fight when Jon's back was turned, and he never ever shut his great maw of a mouth.

"Poor crow! I see why you took the black now, lad! What's the use of sticking your pecker in anything else, when you just know your own sister has got the warmest c-" Jon knocked the great bag of wind to the ground once more, pressing his sword point to the wilding's throat.

"You just always have to take it too far, don't you?" He growled and Tormund's eyes went wide as he raised his hands in surrender.

"You know I mean no disrespect against Red. She's a fine fierce woman and I owe her my life. I can't help it if she's the easiest way to get your goat, Snow." Jon helped him to his feet begrudgingly, and both men collapsed by the fire, their chests still heaving, their breath coming in harsh, icy puffs.

"Just don't tell her that I gave you such a thrashing and we'll call it even." Jon remarked. "She'll murder me if I reopened any of your wounds."

"Well now, I wouldn't call it a thrashing…but don't worry your pretty head on that regard, Snow. I'd never tell. She'd kill us both, and I have no fire witch at hand to raise me up from the dead." The wilding cackled. “Feeling better now?"

Jon nodded, wearily, closing his eyes against the bright winter sun. "Aye. While you are never right, you also weren't wrong. I needed to get away from the castle and the crown for a spell." The free folk never called him anything but Snow or Crow or 'little fucker'; and even the last was sometimes a welcome respite from the burden of being named king.

"You spent too much time north of the wall. You are one of us now, Jon Snow, despite the kneelers claiming you for their own."

Jon snorted, ignoring Tormund’s proclamation as he reached for his horn. He let the bitter spirits swill over his tongue, relishing the bite. He contemplated the day ahead. "Before the sun goes down, I’ll have to end the lives of more than a few men. Executions don’t sit with me the way a life cut down in battle does."

Tormund only grunted, grabbing back his horn. Apparently, Jon had found a topic the great moppet couldn't spin. The man had been present the last time Jon played executioner, to his own Night's Watch brothers who had betrayed him at the Wall. The youngest of which had been a boy younger than Bran. After, Tormund had gotten him blind drunk, but his efforts didn't prevent Olly's face from haunting Jon at night. Though he held no conflicted emotions over the fate the Bolton and Frey men would face, still he did not relish his position as both the voice and the hand of justice on this day.

Tormund and Thoros joined him as he returned to the castle, and as they argued about the best means of execution, Jon let the morbid words wash over him, hardening himself for the hours ahead.

"Fire purifies the soul." The red priest declared, while Tormund scoffed.

"Who gives a shit about their souls? Fire is a horrible death that doubles as punishment to the living who must listen to the gods-awful screams and suffer through the rotten smell. Rope is easier, if not always as quick as ye'd like."

"He who passes the sentence should swing the sword." Jon muttered and the red priest gave a hollow bark.

"Then you'll have one tired sword arm when this day is through, your Grace. You can't possibly mean to behead all the traitors yourself?"

Jon flexed his burned hand, anticipating the coming ache. "Better a tired arm today and a people sufficiently deterred from treason tomorrow." He left the other two then, ducking down a side corridor, while they went looking for Mance. Satin helped Jon into his new steel gorget emblazoned with direwolfs, and over it, Sansa's heavy cloak. Gendry had offered to forge a new crown out a of finer metal, but Jon preferred the simple circlet.

"Where is the princess?" He asked, pulling on his thickest leather gloves.

"Back in her chambers, your Grace." Satin replied, flicking an invisible speck from his blood red velvet doublet.

"Fetch her. She'll sit in judgement beside me, as is her right." Satin shot him a warning glance, and Jon groused, “She insisted! Trust me, I’d prefer her to never have to face scum like Aenys-fucking-Frey ever again.”

\---

Jon met Howland and Lady Maege in the gallery behind the Great Hall where they rehearsed the proceedings one last time. Since the Bastard’s Boys had fought to the death, Ser Frey and his immediate bannerman would be tried first, followed by the soldiers who had participated in the hostage mutilation. Fortunately, Maester Medrick had kept immaculate records of the torture, ostensibly to help Ramsey keep track of his men’s loyalty. While reading through the grotesque notes was sickening, they were instrumental in identifying which individuals had been responsible. Theon Greyjoy would wait in the dungeons until his sister and the rest of the Ironborn prisoners arrived from Torrhen’s Square.

Most of the lords had already assembled when the king entered the Great Hall, and the conversations ground quickly to a halt as he took his seat at the head table, calling for an additional chair for the princess before issuing the command to proceed. In short order, Aenys Frey and his confederates were brought forth and Lady Mormont began her recital of their many crimes against House Stark and the north. She was only half-way through the accusations when Jon heard the creak of the door opening behind him, and Sansa entered like a beautiful, black tempest, all of her softness scraped away, shards of ice in her eyes.

He tried to concentrate on Maege’s words once her litany commenced once more, but the static in the air between his arm and Sansa’s was driving him to distraction. He dismissed his better instincts and reached for her beneath the table. Miraculously, she opened her hand to his, lacing their fingers together. The contact brought him the clarity needed to focus, and when Maege concluded by asking if any would come forth to speak on behalf of the accused, he was not surprised by the silence in the hall.

Reluctantly, he released Sansa’s hand, rising to his feet. “As no one else seems eager to come to your defense Ser Frey, do you have any final words to dissuade the king’s justice?”

“I am Lord Walder Frey’s son!” Aenys struggled to his feet, an awkward movement with his hands tied behind his back. “I am more valuable to you as a hostage!” He sniveled and Jon sneered, ready to be done, but to his surprise Sansa stood, her voice clear as polished steel.

“Your father has twenty trueborn sons and half-a-dozen bastards to spare. You aren’t worth the dirt beneath Winterfell, Ser Aenys Frey. You lost your right to be a hostage the day your father cursed your house by forsaking the laws of gods and men. If that is the best case you can make for your own life, then it is time for the king to pass judgement.” She took her seat once more, staring up at Jon with the light of justice in her eyes and with an unceremonious shrug he sentenced Ser Frey and his men to death, not bothering to tear his gaze from her face.

The king’s men dragged Aenys and his lieutenants from the hall, replacing them with the over forty men responsible for torturing Lady Cerwyn, Lord Dayne, and the other women and children in Lady Cerwyn’s household. This time, as Lady Mormont read the accusations, it was Sansa who reached for Jon, and he squeezed her hand, trying to comfort her through the layers of leather between. When Maege gave the perfunctory opening for any to speak on the men’s behalf, Jon started to rise, assuming none would come forth, but Sansa squeezed his knee, for Lady Cerwyn herself stepped forth.

“My lady, the floor is yours.” Jon sat down, perplexed.

“Thank you, your Grace. I shall not take up much of your time.” Lady Jonelle was no longer the shy homely girl he remembered from his youth. The woman standing before him now, though deceptively ordinary at first glance, held deep reserves of intelligence and forbearance that, as Jon had gotten to know her better over the past few weeks, seemed to alter the planes of her face for the better. When she spoke, it was like holding a river rock beneath the water to reveal the veins of gold and green between the subtler shades of russet and brown. If she were standing to defend these men, he knew it would be a great deal more persuasive than anything they’d be able to come up with for themselves.

“What these men did…to myself and those I am pledged to protect, has caused immeasurable and lasting harm, and I do not stand before you to trivialize or attempt to put logic to their actions. Though their violations of our bodies were the result of direct orders from their liege lords, they still had a choice. We always have a choice.” Sansa sighed heavily beside him, her fingertips pressing into his knee, and out of the corner of his eye, Jon caught the tear sliding down her cheek. He returned his attention to the lady speaking. “Be that as it may, I stand before you, to humbly ask that you give these men one more choice. I have spoken with the other survivors, including those who could not stand here today, and we all agree that these men should be given the option to take the black. The Wall needs reinforcements more than we need more bodies in the ground…if that is your will, your Grace.”

There were murmurs in the crowd as the lady returned to her place beside Lord Ashwood and Jon let them die out before he spoke to the men kneeling before him. “Lady Cerwyn spoke with more grace than I expect to hear from any of you, so I’ll allow but one of two words to pass each of your lips. ‘Black’ or ‘Sword’. For those of you who choose the sword, make your peace with whatever gods you worship for you’ll not see another morn.” He rose, taking the princess’s hand once more and they swept out of the Hall together.

Satin was waiting in the gallery with Jon’s scabbard in hand, and as Jon strapped it in place, Sansa watched him silently, worrying at her lip.

“Are you well, my lady?” He asked her after several long moments, and she seemed to come out of her reverie with a heavy sigh.

“Jon, if those men don’t choose the black…there could be many-“she started, but Howland and Lady Maege interrupted by entering the dimly let room. Sansa retreated to the window, chewing her lip once more.

“Most of them had enough sense to take the black, your Grace, but…it still might be better for you to make an example of Ser Frey, and let the others hang tomorrow.” Lord Reed advised, but Jon was resolute.

“This dark chapter ends today, Lord Reed.” He watched the princess close her eyes, her lashes dark against her pale cheeks. “Leave us. I’ll meet you in the yard shortly.” When they were alone, Jon moved to her side. “Sansa, why don’t you go to your chambers or walk the godswood with Lady Jeyne? You needn’t watch this.”

Turning to him, he was taken aback by the conviction in her sea-blue eyes. “Jon, I’ll not have you face this alone.” She took both of his hands in hers. “I understand why you feel you must bear the sole burden of this task, but at least, let me stand by your side.”

“Are you sure?” He examined her face, but there was no fear or uncertainty to be found; only the promise of House Stark. _Winter is coming._  
  


\----

A beheading was an intimate act of violence. To end it cleanly, the soon-to-be-deceased had to prostrate himself before his killer, baring that stretch of skin that in gentler times a lover may have run their lips over, or if they were a difference sort of beast altogether, a mother may have taken into her teeth to carry her babe to safety. Instead, Jon had to stand close enough to see the hairs rise along the back of the neck and hear the last arrhythmic gasps of breath. Before raising his sword above his head, he’d catch a gleam of copper from his periphery, where Sansa stood at the platform’s edge. He had hesitated when she followed him up the steps, but he allowed it when Ghost joined them, standing at her side.

There was no way to avoid the blood splattering across his front, and more often than not, the head would roll back toward Jon instead of away. Then, as he caught his own breath, he'd watch as his men-at-arms dragged the body away, awkwardly chasing down the head. Once, one landed near Sansa and Jon froze in dread at the sight, but Ghost punted it back with his snout and Sansa called for someone to retrieve it in a clear, steady voice before meeting Jon's eye. Whatever she saw there, had her taking over the role of summoning the next man and receiving his final words. Whether they were a harsh curse or whispered prayer, she listened until each released his last sentiments to the wind. Then she'd step back with a subtle nod, and Jon would raise his sword once more.

It wasn't that awareness left him. He had to stay focused in order to sever each head with a single swing of his blade. It grew heavier each time that he lifted it, and his hands, especially the scarred one, started to cramp fiercely before he was halfway through with the butchering. It was only that he started to experience the world differently, as if a part of him stepped behind a thick sheet of ice that dulled the thump of each head hitting the platform and numbed the smell of piss and blood and fear that had accosted his senses with the first few condemned. The sensation was not new to him. He had experienced it often enough to recognize its form. It would come on in a battle, after the initial exhilaration was spent and he sensed that he still had hours left to endure. Then, his barrier was like the fresh ice of a pond, mostly firm around the edges, but the middle would puncture with a particularly frenzied attack or heavy blow. The wall was strongest after Jon rose up from death, when it grew up like a fortress around him, deadening the world beyond with its dark corridors leading nowhere. It was many moons before he found the gate outside.

It helped, this additional layer of separation. Now, he let his curtain of ice grow thicker as Sansa took on a larger role. He suppressed everything but the heft of his blade and her face like a beacon. When the last man fell, it was Sansa who was at his side, giving orders to Lord Glover to break up the crowd as she placed her gloved hands over his, silently pressing him to release his sword over to Satin who joined them on the platform. With a whisper, she slid her arm beneath his and together they left the bloody wake behind, walking back to the keep as the attending lords parted before them in a wave. It wasn't that Jon was in shock. He wasn't. He was perfectly able to nod back at the gruff acknowledgements he received as they left the yard, and he even took it upon himself to slow Sansa's pace half a stride so he could catch Lord Baelish's eye, holding it until the older man broke away to Jon's feral satisfaction. It was only that the wall of ice did not immediately thaw either. A part of him knew that if he were reacting normally, he'd feel an ugly shame at the way Sansa's skirts were dark with blood and he’d hate himself for allowing her to participate in the sordid proceeding. But now, with the frozen sheet around him, he felt only a weary, selfish pride that she was at his side, smelling like the clean winter air. Later, he’d have time to regret pulling her down to his level.

Now, it was she who was pulling him, past the last of the lords and up the steps to his solar, where she pushed him assertively into the chair by the door. He watched her in silence as she kneeled before him, removing each of his gloves, slowly and with care, one finger at a time. When they were off, she took a moment with each hand, massaging the middle of his palm with her thumbs, a move that elicited a deep groan of pleasure from the back of his throat. He drank in the perfume of her as she leaned forward, reaching around his neck, her fingers fighting the buckles of his gorget. Her small huffs of annoyance tickled his ears while his nose yearned to dive into her hair and swim in her coppery depths. When she at last found success and drew back, his eyes followed her slim form with dark intent as she set his armor on the table. It wasn't until she was on her knees before him once more, clearly intending to remove his boots, that his mouth caught up to his mind.

"Leave them." The command came out hoarse and low, and her eyes shot up in a flash of sapphire defiance.

"You'll ruin the rugs." She sulked and he wanted to pull her into his lap and kiss her admonishment away. He wanted to kiss her until she was as senseless and lost as he was. Just as his last ounce of good judgement left him, Satin entered and Sansa shot to her feet, as if sensing the curve of Jon's intentions.

"Your Graces. I've ordered supper to be brought here." For a moment, Sansa just stared back at the steward, blinking rapidly as the apples of her cheeks ripened to a lovely persimmon that Jon yearned to bite into. As if sensing the impulse, her eyes darted briefly his way before responding to Satin.

"Thank you. I'll take my leave then. Can you assist the king?"

"Of course, Princess." Satin bowed and she swept out of the room without a backwards glance, pulling all warmth after her. Satin's touch was neither as welcome nor as accommodating as Sansa's and Jon felt very little compulsion to cooperate as his steward pulled his bloody boots off and wrestled his gambeson and then his shirt over Jon's aching shoulders. When he left to fill the wash basin, Jon padded into his bedchamber, sparing a baleful glance at his reflection in the looking glass and _gods, he looked like a monster from one of Old Nan’s stories._ There was dried blood smeared across his face where he must have wiped at it with his coat sleeve, matting some of his hair to his temple in the process. And to think, moments before he had almost lost control and kissed Sansa; beautiful, pure as the driven snow Sansa, with his hard, filthy lips. It was no wonder she fled from his presence the moment his steward arrived.

Satin soon returned and with some blunt persuasion, he managed to scrub Jon into a decent enough presentation to allow the poor serving maids entrance to the solar with the king's supper. Jon ignored their whispered efforts, glowering into the fire as his wall of ice blackened around him. He was so far gone in his dark oblivion that it was several moments before he recognized that it was Sansa's voice speaking behind him.

"Thank you. The food smells delightful. I will serve the king from here. Satin, ensure that we are not disturbed for the rest of the evening…and Marisol, if you can just send someone up in an hour or so for the dishes, I shouldn't need anything else from you tonight, either."

He didn't dare turn until the servants had murmured the last of their addresses to the princess and he heard the door shut behind them, leaving him alone with Sansa once more. A glance and she stole the breath from his lips. Gone was her stark black ensemble and in its place was a linen chemise peeking out of a rich buttercup velvet robe, embroidered all over with spring flowers; jonquils and snowdrops and delicate purple primrose that trailed up Sansa's arms and danced across her collar, where her hair spilled over her shoulders in a loose, sunset cloud.

"You didn't have to come back." His words came out harsher than he intended and hurt washed across her face before clearing into what Jon had come to think of as her 'courtly calm' look. She used it whenever a lord was saying something particularly idiotic and Sansa was too gracious to tell them to sod off.

"I know that." Her voice was soft yet pointed as she forked slivers of tender veal and wilted winter greens onto plates. "I wanted to come back." She gave him a wary look, before pouring the wine. "Would you prefer that I leave?"

"No." Ice thickened his tongue, turning him to a wordless halfwit.

“Good, then it seems we are in perfect accordance, for once.” Her lips quirked into an almost-smile as she summoned him with a crook of her finger. “Come, brother. Eat with me.” Despite the loathsome word on her lips, his humor shifted, and he succumbed to her invisible thread pulling him to her side. He supposed the food was flavorful, based on the happy hum from Sansa as she bit into a slice of bread with fig and onion jam, and he certainly attacked his plate with efficiency, though his only appreciation was of her. Before long, the princess was serving him seconds of the meat with slices of poached autumn pear and thick veined blue cheese.

“Are you sure we should be feasting like this?” He asked. “Based on the figures I saw today, we don’t have the luxury-“

“Based on the figures you read in an account you snatched from my desk and had no business or context for reading?” Sansa’s eyes narrowed, and he had the sense to look away, scowling into the fire.

“I didn’t know I needed permission to look into my own kingdom’s accounts. If Lord Baelish can review them, surely-“

“Jon, stop.” Her hand was warm on his, tugging his eyes back to her face. “Please. I am more than happy to review the ledger with you, but tonight, can we please set the business of running a kingdom aside and just enjoy each other’s company?”

“How can you stand it? To sit beside me?” He pushed back from the table. “My home is in a field of blood and my hands are black with death…while you-“He drank her in; her mountain lake eyes and cherry blossom skin. “-you’re all that is holy and good.”

She snorted, breaking the spell. “Jon, the holiest man in King’s Landing was a fat drunk who skimmed from Baelor’s coffers and granted miracles and annulments in exchange for gold trinkets and bolts of Myrish lace.” She drew closer. “And if we’re judging by the old gods, who demand only blood and silence, then you are holiest person I know.” Her palm ghosted over his cheek, soft and cool, before dropping to his hands. “I know this day exacted its toll, my king, but these hands bring shelter and safety to those who have not the strength nor the means to defend themselves. You are a protector, Jon Snow, and the men who you served justice to, chose their own fates long before you put your sword to their necks.”

He was drowning in her; in the contradictions of her hawk-eyed assessment and the softness with which she gazed at him now. He was inexplicably winded, distracted by the rapid rise of his chest, and acutely aware of the rose flush spreading from the dip between Sansa’s collar bones. He let her pull him back to the table, falling bonelessly into his seat at the insistence of her palm at his breast.

“Now, may we eat in peace? I missed the midday meal and have been craving clotted cream and honey cakes all day.” He managed a stiff nod before falling into dumbstruck silence once more, not even attempting to hide his heated gaze. Gamely, Sansa ignored his graceless study, pouring them both more wine and diving into her food with enthusiasm. When a servant came to remove the platters, Sansa rose as well, bending over a basket by the door.

“Are you leaving then?” He asked, flinching at his own mulish tone. Whatever Sansa had lifted from the basket, she dropped back in before turning, hand on hip.

“Well, I was going to stay and work on some sewing by the fire, but since you very clearly wish to be alone, I’ll be out of your hair, your Grace.” Her irritation rattled something loose within him and at once, his ice enclosure shattered like glass. He practically lunged for her then, grabbing her wrists in supplication.

“No! Please stay!” He pleaded, yanking her away from the door quite rudely. “Forgive my rotten disposition and stay. Please.” She glared another moment before her face broke into a radiant smile and she let him lead her before the hearth where he pressed her back into the high-backed chair before the flames. “Thank you,” he whispered, hovering over her a moment, before recalling the servant still clearing plates from the table. With a pent-up sigh, he retreated to the chair opposite Sansa, letting his head fall back with a thump.

“Lena, will you fetch my basket from the door?” The princess motioned to the maid. “Then, we will bid you goodnight. My brother and I have all that we need.” He stared into the flames, unable to bear the sight of her without acting on his foolish heart. Every time she called him brother, it was another knife in his flesh, and while she sat in oblivious contentment, singing under her breath in that sweet voice of hers, he was a ball of torment. Slowly, however, her soothing melody penetrated the tension in his shoulders and the ache at his brow and he relaxed back into his chair letting the sounds of her wash over him in waves. He watched as the fire burned low, unable to summon the energy to throw another log in the grate. As Sansa’s words turned to a gentle hum and then silence, his resolve grew. He would not let her sit in ignorance any longer.

“Sansa, there is something I must tell you.” He looked up to find her dark lashes lowered, her cheek lolling toward her shoulder as her head tilted adorably to the side. At his words, she startled awake, blinking in owlish confusion.

“Oh!” She yawned, “I’m sorry Jon. What is it that you were saying?” She yawned again. “Oh dear. Did I drift off?”

He pulled her to her feet, smiling down at her. “Come, my lady. To bed with you, before you roll into the fire.”

“But you wanted to tell my something…” She murmured, leaning into him as he guided her into the cold corridor and down the stairs.

“Tomorrow.” He kissed her brow before opening her chamber door, and this time, there was no mistaking the way she leaned into his embrace.

“Goodnight, my king.” She murmured, sleepily into his shirt.

When he returned to his solar, he picked up her embroidery hoop, where it had slid to the floor; two wolves chased each other beneath a weirwood tree, one white as bone, the other gray.

\--

Council the next day was chaotic and tortuously long. Lords Umber and Flint wasted twenty minutes arguing over the location of the pyre used to burn the traitors’ bodies, both insisting that the other was attempting to smoke his camp out. Then, the princess and Satin arrived late, whispering fervently together as they entered but then claiming they had no new business to bring forth, despite Sansa’s promise of the previous night to review the accounts.

It was not until Lord Baelish stepped forward with news from the South, that Jon learned anything of interest.

“My lords, while you have been fighting amongst yourselves in the North,” Jon bristled at this characterization but allowed it for the sake of getting to the point, “the rest of the world has not stood idle.”

“No shit.” Tormund spit out and Jon raised a hand in warning.

“Go on, Lord Baelish. We are eager to hear what news you have.”

“Across the narrow sea, Daenerys Targaryen, the elusive ghost of a girl that Robert Baratheon chased across the free cities for half her life, has grown into a woman of seemingly tremendous power. She has conquered the cities of Astapor, Yunkai, and Mereen.”

“And why are the goings on in Slaver’s Bay of any interest to us?” Lady Mormont queried, scornfully.

Sansa’s voice floated to Jon, as she whispered almost to herself. “She’s freed the slaves. They call her ‘Mother’.”

“It is of interest to us,” Lord Baelish responded, patronizingly, “because the exiled Targaryen has three dragons and has amassed an army of Unsullied and Dothraki, unparalleled in size or might.

“Still, her seat of power is half a world away. Why would she venture across the Narrow sea now, to a land she’s never set foot in?” Jon asked, and Littlefinger turned a cunning eye his way.

“Because,” He paused, savoring his response, “the advisors she has surrounded herself with indicate an eye turned westward, a heart longing for throne torn from her family’s grasp and which is now held precariously by a boy king of uncertain parentage.” He looked around the room, and Jon scowled, impatient with this entire endeavor.

“And who are these advisors?” He prompted.

“Ser Barristan Selmy, Tyrion Lannister…and one of your own. Ser Jorah Mormont, of Bear Island.” If Littlefinger was hoping for pandemonium in response to his declaration, he was surely not disappointed by the disorder that erupted now.

“Jorah Mormont is no true man of the north!”

“If she comes to Westeros, so be it. Let her take the throne from the Lannisters. Good riddance!”

“Ser Barristan Selmy and Tyrion Lannister? Fie! Get your head out of your ass, Baelish!”

“Princess, did you know that your husband was in Essos?”

“Enough!” Jon slammed his fists down on the table, silencing the room once more. “Until Daenerys sails across the Narrow Sea, there is no use expending energy on what she may or may not be planning with her dragons and her armies and her washed up old men. Lord Baelish, tell me of the other.”

The mockingbird arched his brow in feigned confusion. “The other, your Grace?”

“Aegon Targaryen.”

“Ah yes, the _other dragon_. It seems, Gregor Clegane smashed another babe’s head during the sack of King’s Landing all those years ago. Aegon Targaryen, the only son of Rheagar Targaryen has sailed out of the sunset and landed in the Stormlands with the Golden Company at his back. There are whispers that Dorne supports his claim and even now he is pulling apart the foundations of the Lannister-Tyrell alliance.”

“And how many dragons does he have?” Mance asked, drily.

“None, but he has an aunt with two spares. They say she is the most beautiful woman in the world, and we all know of the Targaryen’s taste for their own blood. They say he waits for her to join him before they spread their dominion over the whole of Westeros once more.”

“Fucking Targayens.” Lord Glover spit. “Incestuous mad men. It’s too bad Robert couldn’t wipe them out when he had the chance.” There were nods of agreement around the table, and Jon’s stomach tightened as he met Howland’s eye.

“Is there any additional information you have to share, Lord Baelish?”

“No, your Grace.” The lord stepped back, glancing toward Lord Ashwood who took the opportunity to launch into his case for Castle Hornwood and who should govern its lands while Larence Snow came of age, and Jon’s temples throbbed.

“Lord Ashwood, while ensuring responsible stewardship over Hornwood forest is of utmost importance, may I suggest we adjourn for the day.” Sansa’s voice was sweet but firm. “Let us discuss this matter when our minds are fresh.” With a gentle determination she began ushering the men from the room with a promise to meet Lady Wyn for tea that afternoon and compliments to Lord Flint on his son’s marriage.

Mance tried to brush by her, speaking to the king, “I’ve kept my word to you boy. Now it’s time you keep yours. My son-“

“Mance, whatever you feel his grace owes you can be discussed at a later time.” Sansa pressed her hands firmly against the older man’s chest, backing him into the hall.

“Royalty is getting to your head, girl.” The old ranger grumbled, and her laugh was a breath of spring.

“If you asked Arya, she’d tell you I’ve been bossy since the day she had the misfortune of becoming my younger sister. Now begone with you. I found a book of legends in the broken tower the other day. I’ve left it in your chamber.” Jon watched in silent wonder as Sansa herded the rest of the men from his solar with a poise that he couldn’t hope to emulate. When only Howland and himself remained, she pulled a ledger from a side table and placed it before Jon.

“You wanted to see the accounts, your Grace.” She stared at him with a mischievous glint to her eye. 

“This is not the same account book from yesterday.” He looked down at the neat lines of figures and Lord Reed approached as well, peering over his shoulder.

“It is not.” She ceded. The sums he’d seen the day before hinted at a desperate situation for the north. What he saw before him was significantly less bleak.

“Why didn’t you bring this forward during council?”

“Because, your Grace, your council is too large.” Lord Reed snorted his agreement, and Jon glared at them both. “And, I believe there is some information that should be kept confidential.”

“But not from Littlefinger?” Jon raised his brow, but Sansa only smiled back innocently.

“It is true, I reviewed some accounts with him yesterday, asking for his recommendations on how we might stretch our resources and extend our trade options. He was Master of Coin for the Iron Throne for many years. His knowledge in such matters in invaluable. Still I believe _these_ accounts should be privileged knowledge, just as I believe that the decisions of your kingdom should not be made by a rabble of quarrelsome lords.

“Am I not supposed to take my lords’ opinions into consideration? Should I rule my kingdom with an iron fist, repressing every whisper of dissent?”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Of course not, your Grace. But nor should you let your lords run roughshod over every council meeting, dictating the course of your rule with their petty disputes. I am only suggesting that you bring order by culling your council to a few key members.” Howland huffed in agreement, while he continued to peruse the account book.

“The lords will not like it. My reign is young, and their loyalty is still questionable. Is not better to hear out their discontent from their own mouths than have it fester in the shadows?”

“Their confidence in your rule will grow the more you act like their king, and not just their general. There is no higher authority than yours. Maintaining a modicum of distance will help remind them of that.”

“Says the woman who tells me what to wear, when to eat, and how to rule my kingdom.” He spoke the words in jest and was rewarded with a pleasing blush across Sansa’s cheeks. “In truth, Howland and I have been discussing the move as well. At this rate, the long night will have come and gone, before we’ve agreed on which lord should foster poor Larence Snow. Lord Glover insists he should continue his guardianship while Lord Ashwood seems hellbent on bringing the boy under his influence.” He groaned.

“Oh, well we will foster him, of course.” Sansa responded, pertly. “He’s a gentle, intelligent boy and my hope is that he will serve as a companion and a role model to Rickon when he returns home. Lady Jonelle should take Hornwood Castle while Castle Cerwyn is rebuilt. The lords will not begrudge the appointment, afer what the gentle lady has endured.”

“You really think of everything don’t you?” Jon stared at her in awe. “I suppose you’ve already named the members of my small council as well.”

She chewed at her fingernail, looking down at the large map of the north spread across the table. “I have some thoughts. But I’ll allow you to weigh in of course.” She winked. “Lord Manderly should be Master of Ships, as he is the only lord with any to speak of.”

“And hopefully, a formal appointment will help bring him to our side.” Jon agreed. “I’d have Lady Mormont as my Master of Laws,” he added.

“Oh yes!” Sansa beamed, “A woman is exactly what is needed to balance the scales of justice.” She frowned at Howland. “I struggle over the Master of Coin. Lord Reed, if you weren’t clearly meant to be Jon’s Hand, I’d say were perfect for the role…”

“What about you, Princess?” Howland looked up from the ledger. “Your plans here are brilliant. With a few changes, we’ll be able feed Winterfell and our army for almost two years.” Sansa glowed with pleasure at Howland’s praise, clearly flustered.

“Oh, thank you, Lord Reed, but really, I had so much help from Satin and Lord Baelish…and if the legends are true, this winter could last a decade-“

“Sansa, you will be my Hand.” Jon intercepted, stepping close as she looked up at him in shock.

“What? I…there has never been a woman as Hand-“

“This isn’t King’s Landing, Sansa. I’m not sitting on the Iron Throne. I’m King in the North and you are the eldest living Stark.”

“But…Lord Reed.” She implored the crannogman who only shrugged.

“I agree with his Grace. You’ll make a find Hand, Princess.” Once again, she flushed under the lord’s praise, ducking her chin down in agitation. Jon tilted her face up to his, basking in her embarrassed glow.

“Then it’s settled. You will be my Hand. Howland will be my Master of Coin. That way, you won’t have to go running off to Littlefinger with our accounts ever again.”

She smirked up at him. “If you think I’d show Lord Baelish the true state of our kingdom, then I don’t deserve to be your Hand, Jon Snow. What I shared with him yesterday was the ledger that you swiped from my desk at breakfast…the ledger that shows a far more desperate state of affairs.”

He traded a glance with Howland before asking, “Why?”

“Well, like I said, Littlefinger has valuable knowledge that I did want insight to, but also, I have learned that it is better when your enemy believes you to be weaker than you are. If Lord Baelish believes we are on the brink of destitution, he will be bolder in his moves against you, and it will be easier to flush them out before it is too late. Aside from you, he is the only other who has set eyes on the other ledger. So…if we hear rumbles from the other lords regarding its contents, we’ll know who he has been recruiting for whatever schemes he is plotting.”

“You beautiful, clever girl,” Jon stepped closer still, reveling in her sharp intake of breath as he smiled down at her. She stepped back, bumping into the table with a gasp.

“Well, I am trying my best, brother.” _Gods, she’d be the death of him_. He turned away, giving her space as he reached for the decanter of wine. They were all going to need a glass. 

“Howland, I’m telling her.” He shot his mentor a look of warning, but Lord Reed nodded.

“Yes, I think it is time,” He agreed, closing the ledger and stepping to the window.

“Time?” Sansa glanced between them in confusion, as Jon handed her a cup of arbor gold. “Tell me what?”

Jon eyed her warily. “You may want to sit down for this, Princess.”

“What is it?” She snapped. “What are you going to tell me? That there’s another secret Targaryen, vying for the Iron Throne?” She rolled her eyes.

Jon spit out this wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gods...this chapter is long...and please excuse the purple prose. Jon is a romantic fool, and I had to indulge myself. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this as much as I did. And...forgive the cliffhanger ending! I'm such a troll.
> 
> Also, thank you for all the comments and encouragement. I really appreciate all your feedback!


	4. Not a Lady

**Arya**

"So? What do you think? Do I look like a Targaryen king now?" A flash of metal arced above her, and Arya parried Aegon's blow easily. Earlier, a sellsword from Moluu had shown them a combined attack which the king had been practicing against her for the better part of an hour; one that required, in Arya's humble opinion, too many cross-steps for Aegon's long legs. Yet, who was she, to argue with a king?

"You look like a sunchoke." She quipped, switching her sword hand, forcing Aegon to pause and re-think the tactic.

"How so?" He stared down at his feet, muttering the footwork to himself as he hopped around the hardpacked dirt.

"Well, with your hair chopped short, your head is all brown and lumpy like a tuber." She circled behind him, before going in for the kill. "And these little white hairs resemble sprouts." Dropping her weapon, she leapt onto his back, digging her knuckles into his scalp like Theon and Robb used to do to her when no adults were watching.

"Ah! Get off you tiny demon!" He spun around before rolling her over his broad shoulders. She landed with a thud, cackling up at him. "You don't fight fair," he groused, pulling her back to her feet. "Sprouts! Nonsense. And there is nothing _lumpy_ about these cheekbones." He held her glove to his face, and she pursed her lips, wrenching away.

"Maybe I resemble a parsnip? They're skinny, right?" He leaned into the mockery, and she snorted. In truth, Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name looked nothing like a root vegetable. With the last of his ridiculous blue hair shorn away, and his bronze skin sparkling with sweat under the midday sun, he was a vision of leonine beauty. But Arya would join the silent sisters before she'd ever compliment his looks. He was already entirely too smug and there were enough admirers hanging around Storm's End to preen his feathers without her joining in the flattery.

"As I can see you've left off all earnest pursuit of betterment some minutes ago, Your Grace, I recommend that you adjourn to your chambers and wash up. We have real work to get done today." Jon Connington stalked across the practice yard toward them, shooting a hard look in Arya's direction. As if it were her fault that the king would rather spend his time sparring with her or horseback riding with Elia, than sitting in council meetings with Strickland, Arianne and his Hand, arguing about their next move while waiting for answers from supposed allies _._ His three closest advisors could hardly stand each other, and Arya had taken to stuffing cotton in her ears whenever she had to stand guard outside their assemblies, to better drown out their constant bickering. _Why won't Doran send us his troops waiting in the Boneway? We should march on King's Landing now, while their focus is on the Queens' trials. We should wait for Daenerys and her dragons. We don't need her. We should attack the Tyrells at Highgarden. We should make allies of the Tyrells at Higharden…_ On and on it went, as the Golden Company secured the last corners of the Stormlands and the expected attack from the Lannister and Tyrell armies never came.

Only Aegon seemed to find amusement in the discord, blithely stating that it was helpful for a king to hear all sides of an argument. By the way Jon Connington glared at his protégé whenever he expressed these sentiments, Arya was sure that the king had a death wish. Now, he clapped a hand on his mentor's back, grinning widely.

"Griff, you are just who I wanted to see. It's been ages since we sparred. Want to have a go, old man?"

Arya turned and walked away, uninterested in getting roped into the hushed reprimand the lord was surely giving his young monarch. As she put their practice swords back, however, Aegon called out to her once more.

"Stark! Where are you going? Who will attend me while I bathe?"

She refused to look back at him; the stupid git. He was always trying to get a rise out of her, but after a fortnight in his company, his japes and innuendos rolled off her back. "Not my job and I'm not on duty, your Grace," she called. "Rolly will have to scrub your scrawny hide down." With the last, she threw a knowing smirk over her shoulder.

"Very well, my lady. Then I will bid you good day for now. Better rest up if you expect to have enough stamina to spend the night with me." Ignoring him, she ducked inside as Connington started chastising the king anew, this time over his disregard for decorum and dignity with his kingsguard. She scowled as his voice faded away. _If you let that half-wild girl speak to you that way, how do you expect the great lords of Westeros to bend to your will! Rheagar never would have-_ According to Lord Connington, Rheagar was practically a god made flesh, and he was quick to remind Aegon whenever the younger Targaryen failed to act in a way that emulated his father. Remembering the vehemence in Aegon's voice when he spoke of his father her first night in Storm's End, Arya found Connington's devotion an odd contradiction in the confusing milieu of the dragon king's court.

Fortunately, politics weren't her concern, and with nothing but time until her guard shift started at sundown, she was free to do as she liked. For once, the sea was calm and there was a tide-pool that she and Elia had discovered that begged to be further explored. Peeling off her hot leathers, she glanced about her room for a fresh shirt to replace the sweat-soaked linen plastered to her chest. Coming up empty, she conceded that perhaps she should allow the castle servants to clean her chamber and launder her clothes, as the Septa had implored. It wasn’t like she had anything to hide. Arya didn't know what to think of the pesky Lemore. She went out of her way to talk to Arya, always gratingly cheerful and kind, as she pushed courtesies and clothing on the girl like she was another highborn lady about court, and not a sword for hire. It was highly suspicious and a complete waste of time. Arya was no lady. As she was making a final sweep through the kitchens, scrounging for food to bring with her, she had the misfortune of bumping into the meddlesome woman.

"I should have known you'd be here after the practice yard." Septa Lemore smiled brightly as Arya frowned back. _Was the woman having her followed?_ "I'm hosting tea in my chambers, my lady. I'd be most obliged if you'd join us."

Chomping into an apple, she relished the spray of juice and the crisp tartness on her tongue. Lemore's smile faded as Arya took her time chewing. "Sorry. I have other plans," she shrugged. Gone were the days when she would be forced to while away the hours in a septa’s stuffy solar, pricking herself with a needle while she hacked her way through yet another boring sewing lesson. There was no one to enforce such torment now.

"Well, if you have a change of heart, you are always welcome to join us, Lady Arya."

Arya brushed by the Septa with a pert retort. "I'm sure I won't and I'm not a lady." She sauntered away, almost giddy with the assurance that the older woman could do nothing to stop her. Aegon certainly wouldn't care. He liked Arya's defiance and had made it clear time and again that she could dress in burlap and speak only in profanities for all he cared, just as long as she joined him in the practice yard when he called and kept his heart beating when she guarded him.

As she wandered down the steps of the tower, she imagined how the water would feel lapping against her tired thighs and arms, buoying her up beneath the warm autumn sun. A niggling at her consciousness marred the anticipation, however, and her father's sad eyes met hers from the glinting metal of a plaque hanging on the wall. _The septa is doing no more than is her duty_ , he had said to her once of Mordane, _though gods know you have made it a struggle for the poor woman. Your mother and I have charged her with the impossible task of making you a lady_.

But she had never wanted to be a lady. She had told him as much, and he had let her keep Needle, and listened to her hopes and fears with sad, tired eyes…and he had also told her to grow up. _This willfulness of yours, the running off, the angry words, the disobedience…at home, these were only the summer games of a child. Here and now, with winter soon upon us, that is a different matter. 1 _She wasn't a child, though. She had killed men and left the games of youth far behind her. Hadn't she? Still, her father would shake his head if he had heard the way she talked to Septa Lemore, and her mother…well, there'd be no pride in Lady Catelyn's eyes if she saw her youngest daughter now, in her sweat-stained shirt with her hair wild and knotted. As for the rest…sometimes she wondered if it were for the best that her family was not around to know of her exploits. How could she explain them?

The sun was searing in its intensity as she emerged from the castle, yet her enthusiasm for a swim had been subdued. With leaden feet, she retreated into the keep, making her way up the tower once more, unable to shake the ache of her parents' phantom disappointment. When she reached Septa Lemore's chambers, the doors were propped open to let the air flow and she could hear Lady Jayne Ladybright's Dornish drawl.

"Myles says veraison is horribly unpredictable this year. My poor, handsome duck of a husband is combing through the vineyards from morning till night, pulling our sweet Loreza behind him in her painted wagon. It's just as well that I'm here with you, Arianne. His incessant talk of terroir and sugar levels would only give me headaches." Inside the airy, bright chamber, the lady was draped across a chaise in the middle of the room, reading from a parchment. Arianne stood near an open window, the afternoon sun framing her in soft golden light, while Elia hovered over a table laden with food. There was neither an embroidery hoop nor a Septa in sight.

"Arya! You came!" Her new friend smiled, beckoning her over. "Here. Have some of this semolina cake before Jayne finishes reading her letter and eats it all." Arya stepped closer, examining the spread of food, inhaling the unfamiliar spices. She glanced up in time to catch Elia wrinkling her nose. "You reek."

Arianne turned at her cousin's objection, her golden eyes slanting down to take in Arya's soiled form. "You Northerners really are a primitive people, aren't you?" She flicked an invisible speck from the skirt of her own, crisp white gown veined with beaded red vines; an architectural marvel that Sansa would have swooned over with its daring cutouts along the torso and chest and dramatically puffed sleeves that fanned out like wings from her shoulders.

"Well, I was planning on a swim, before the Septa invited me here," Arya defended herself, feeling all the more disheveled in contrast.

While Elia had forgiven her quickly for the poison and their first duel in the practice yard, the princess treated her with disdain, insisting that either Daemon or Rolly guard them whenever she shared the king's bed. This suited Arya just fine. She vastly preferred racing with Elia and Aegon along the wild coastline, to listening to the lovers' muffled moans through the castle walls. In this moment, she despised Arianne, with her knowing eyes and acidic tongue. She had managed to gain the king's confidence as easily as Arya had gained entry to the castle and the princess didn't require a sword to command his attention or respect. Even Connington who loathed her, wasn't dismissive of Arianne like he was of Arya and Elia. Beneath her supple beauty, she had a keen intellect and she was deeply political, arguing continuously for Aegon and Connington to align themselves more formally with Dorne. 

As they glared at one another across the room, a figure emerged from the inner chamber, and with a start Arya realized that the bewitching woman before her was Septa Lemore. Divested from her habit and hood, she wore billowy painted silk trousers and a cropped, matching coral top. She was resplendent and Arya knew it had been a mistake to come, conscience be damned. She would never fit in amongst other highborn women. It was useless to pretend otherwise.

"Arya! I am so glad you came." Lemore smiled, her violet eyes lighting up beneath her long dark lashes. She placed a lacquered plate into the girl’s hands, piling it high with food. "Elia is right, you must try the semolina cake, but first, here are some spiced chickpeas and flatbread, and you have to try some shish barak. They are my favorite. Do you mind a little heat?" She took Arya's dumbstruck silence for a 'no', spooning a dark red paste onto the edge of the plate. "A little of this goes a long way, so keep that in mind. I never could get Aegon to come around to spicy food. I’ve failed his mother in that regard." She winked, before turning back to Jayne.

"Jayne, I did not realize you had a daughter. It must be so hard for you to be away from her."

"It would be more difficult if my Myles weren't so competent. Lord Ladybright has no head for politics, but he's excellent with children. He'll raise my sweet silly moppet to be as noble and pure of heart as he is. It will take me years to undo his influence, so I must keep them both tucked away at our castle, lest they get tripped up in political intrigue and bring ruin to our House,” she said with coy affection.

"And what a harsh fate that is." Lemore demurred, "I visited Brightwood often as a girl. There are few estates as lovely. And the wine…it puts the Arbor to shame."

"You're Dornish?" Arya found her voice at last.

"Of course, she's Dornish." Arianne huffed. “Unlike the North, encased in ice and undesirable to any but the descendants of the First Men, Dorne is rich in culture and our people, though few in number, are as varied as the sands that color our kingdom, from the crystal white dunes of the Saltshore to the black beaches of the Eastern Coast."

Arya swallowed down her spite, the vision of her mother still swimming behind her eyes. Arianne excelled at making her feel small. “I _know._ That’s not what I meant,” she ground out. “It’s only that I never thought of a Septa having a childhood or a life before the Faith. I always imagined our Septa, Mordane, just appeared one day before an image of the Crone, with her skirts starched to a crisp and a damned sewing needle in one hand, hellbent on making my life miserable.” Lemore, Elia, and Jayne broke into laughter, but Arianne just stared back at Arya, her face a mask.

“I’m surprised you grew up with a septa, Lady…Forgive me…Arya. I thought the Starks worshiped the Old Gods?” Lemore questioned.

Arya shrugged, scooping more of the spicy red paste onto a meat dumpling. “My mother worshipped the Seven, so my father built her a sept and,” she took another bite, relishing the heat licking across her tongue, “I suppose we were raised to follow both the old gods and the new.”

Lemore thought a moment before she spoke again. “Your father must have really loved your mother,” she said, almost wistfully. “Not many lords would let their wife worship separate gods.”

Arya had never really thought about it before. “I suppose. I never heard them argue about anything before Jon, my bastard brother, came to Winterfell. Even then, my mother forgave my father in the end.” Though, Catelyn had certainly not forgiven Jon.

The septa stilled, holding her cup of tea to her lips before placing the cup down untasted. "Your mother was truly an understanding woman, to forgive your father for straying from their marriage bed. I would not have expected that of Lord Eddard."

She had forgotten that the septa claimed to know her father and his siblings. How could that be possible if she were a Dornish woman? When would their paths have crossed? "My father never strayed." Arya was adamant. "Well, at least not after the war. Jon was born during the Rebellion when my parents were nearly strangers." It had been a mistake to bring her brother up. No one ever understood.

"Ah, a war babe." Ladybright nodded as if that explained everything, and Elia slouched beside her on the settee with her cake. "I'm sure there were many made during the Usurper's rebellion. I heard Robert, himself, had more than a dozen bastards before the boar did him in."

"Well, what's wrong with a bastard?" Elia asked, defensively and Arya wanted to ask the same.

"Jon is just as much a Stark as my other siblings," Arya insisted. "And he is just as noble and brave as Robb was. He's at the Wall now, serving in the Night's Watch."

"With the rapists and the thieves?" Arianne sneered.

"That's enough." Lemore chastised, and Arya was amazed to see something resembling contrition flash across the princess's face. "Arya, do you know who his mother is?" The septa's eyes were queerly bright, and Arya, eager to end the conversation, grabbed at the first thing that came to mind; a story told to her long ago by a boy in a pale lilac cloak.

"No one important. Just the nurse-maid of House Dayne." Arianne snorted, turning her eyes to Lemore in alarm, but the older woman stood preternaturally still, staring at Arya, her mouth agape. " _What_?" Arya asked. "What does it matter to you all? Why are you asking so many questions?"

Recovering herself, Lemore smiled faintly. "It doesn't matter, my dear. I'm just happy to be among women again and curious about your lives. Forgive me for prying. I've spent too long in the company of men." The conversation shifted then, as the other women talked of Dorne and the colorful bazaars of the shadow city and their carefree childhoods spent at the Water Gardens. Arya listened quietly, unable to shake her earlier discomfort, yet surprisingly curious about the others. Arianne and Elia had countless tales of Elia's other sisters, whom they affectionately referred to as the Sand Snakes and Lady Jayne entertained them with clever maxims about court life and politics. Arianne did not antagonize Arya again, and Lemore asked no more questions about her family. Before she knew it, the whitewashed walls of the room were turning a brilliant orange with the setting sun and her guard duties would begin soon.

"I'm so glad you joined us, Arya," Lemore escorted her to the door. "You are a warrior, but you are also a young woman. You shouldn't have to choose one over the other. I understand what it feels like to be alone and far from home. If you need anything at all, please let me know. I would like us to be friends."

Arya stared at the woman. She was hiding something, but her words seemed sincere. "I won't do needlework or wear useless dresses, or sit inside all day," she insisted.

"I wouldn't ask you to." The older woman smiled, warmly, and Arya's eyes burned.

"Well, then I suppose I'd come to tea again…as long as you have more of those lamb dumplings."

"Of course. They're my favorite too." Septa Lemore wasn't so bad, she supposed. Nothing like Mordane. As Arya turned away, the woman stopped her with a hand on the arm. "One more thing, Arya. I believe Lord Connington is planning to write to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch as part of his outreach to the Seven Kingdoms, declaring Aegon's rightful rule. Would you like to write to your brother? I'm sure he would be willing to include a note from you." She felt like she'd been stabbed. Her longing for Jon was a gaping void that if fed would bring her to her knees. She couldn't possibly put into a letter all that needed to be said. Lemore drew closer, rubbing her fine-boned fingers up and down Arya's arm in comfort. "Will you at least let _us_ put in a word so that your brother will know that you are safe? Though we are half a world away, I'm sure it will bring him some measure of comfort." Arya mumbled her assent before turning swiftly away, her eyes burning once more. She still needed to wash before the changing of the guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. From Game of Thrones by GRRM  
> [Arianne’s dress inspo: Valentino Autumn/Winter 2020 Pre-Fall Collection (Look 34)](https://chispas-and-broken-bindings.tumblr.com/post/620654485423931392/valentino-pre-fall-2020)
> 
> This chapter's word count was getting insanely long (what happened to the days when I topped out at 1000?) so I'm actually splitting it into two. I know many are eager for the full ramifications of the Jon parentage reveal and I promise it is coming (already have much of Sansa's next chapter written), but I am as equally invested in Arya's storyline as I am Sansa and Jon's, and she has some catching up to do if she is ever going to reunite with them. 
> 
> So, next chapter (Arya again, and I'm so excited to share it) should be close on the heels of this one, and after that Sansa once more. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!


	5. Troubles as Light as Foam

**Arya**

She met Daemon Sand outside Aegon's chambers. He had easily beat out Ser Garibald to win another spot on Aegon's kingsguard, though it seemed to bring him little joy. He was masterful with a blade but also mercurial and aloof and avoided the company of others, much like Arya. Occasionally she'd see him walking the ramparts with Arianne, trailing just behind the princess like a storm cloud chasing the sun.

"Is he decent?" she asked him now.

"Is he ever?" The handsome knight shrugged, pushing himself from the wall where he leaned. She gave an insolent salute to his backside as he stalked away. Guarding the king through the night was the worst. The hours dripped by sluggishly and she had to constantly work to keep her mind alert. Since she drew the shift so seldomly, she’d been growing accustomed to sleeping through the night. She supposed she could appreciate the princess for that, at least. She was starting to pace before the door, when Aegon stuck his head out.

"Grand. You're here. Come in." He grabbed her arm before she could resist, and if she weren't here to protect him, she'd dislocate his shoulder for handling her so.

"What are you wearing?" She looked him over, incredulous. Aegon was certainly eclectic in his choice of clothing, though he favored flamboyance over austerity. He was just as likely to wear a slashed doublet with ibis feathers around his collar as he was long, colorful robes with vibrant patterns and a bared chest. Before he cut his hair, he'd sometimes thread beads into his long locks, or wear elaborate rows of braids. One day he'd layer chains of seashells around his neck. Another, he'd line his blue-violet eyes in kohl and display a large ruby encrusted pendant depicting a dragon with three heads proudly on his chest. Tonight, however, he wore no finery. His tunic was the roughspun of a commoner and he wore a floppy straw hat that hid his white-blonde hair and shaded his distinctive eyes.

"A disguise. And you need one too. We're going out." He shoved a bundle of clothing in her arms, pushing her backward into his bedchamber and behind a screen so she’d have a modicum of privacy as he paced about the room singing a sailor's shanty.

_Now it's farewell Maggie darling_

_For it's now I'm going to leave you_

_You promised me you'd marry me_

_But how you did deceive me_

_I wrote me love a letter_

_And I signed it with a ring_

_I wrote me love a letter_

_I was on the Jenny Lind 1_

"Where are we going?" she asked, inspecting his toiletries, smiling at the braid of blue hair displayed beside an ivory brush and several bottles of perfume. She lifted one to her nose, taking in the familiar musk softened with hints of jasmine and thyme.

"It's a surprise."

"Is it allowed?"

He puffed out his chest. "I am the king. I don't need permission to leave the castle." So, Jon Connington was _not_ aware of whatever mischief Aegon had cooked up. It was no matter to her. She was Aegon's guard, not his nursemaid. She stared at her reflection in the looking glass before pulling a worn cap, the last piece of her ensemble, into place. She looked like a peasant boy…and a plain one at that. Yet, when she emerged from behind the partition, Aegon smiled at her like a fool, rubbing his hands together like Bran on his nameday. Ignoring him, she bent down to secure a knife in each boot. When she rose, the king was scooting the bed to the side to reveal a trap door beneath. She glared.

"How are we meant to keep you safe, when you hide a secret passage to your bedchamber?"

"Rolly knows about it."

"Oh, that makes me feel so much better." Still, when he dropped into the hole, she followed after. Aegon’s hand steadied on her hip as she landed in a cramped space that turned pitch black when he drew the door closed above their heads.

"Don't worry, the other end is locked from the inside, and even if it weren't, you'll see that it's not easily accessible." His hand snaked up her side and down her arm, fumbling for her fingers in the dark. "Follow me." He led her through the darkness on a path that seemed to wind down with the curvature of the drum tower. The air grew colder and wetter the further they descended, and the sound of the ocean waves grew louder until it was as if they walked through the belly of a whale. "Not much further!" Aegon squeezed her hand, shouting over the cacophony of the sea breaking against the hopefully impregnable layer of stone shielding them.

Another turn and the sound receded. When the king stopped abruptly, Arya stopped herself from running into his backside, and his chuckle echoed back up the way they came.

“You won’t trip me up that easily, Lizard King.”

“Fair enough, She-wolf.”

He guided her hand across the slimy surface of a door and down to the slick bar locking it in place. Together, they heaved, revealing a shallow, rocky cave beyond, weakly illuminated by the moon. "Careful, it's slippery. Rolly almost cracked his skull open the first time we passed through here. And we need to hurry before the tide comes back in." Aegon led her outside to the rocky beach and when she turned, gazing up, she realized they had emerged from an almost invisible seam in the cliff wall. It would be submerged during all but the lowest tide. Even now, the water was rising around them, and they had to scramble up the rocky beach to safer ground.

"It should be clear again come daybreak. Rolly and I have made the trip half a dozen times by now." Aegon assured her.

“Even if it’s not, I’ve heard the security is shit at Storm’s End. Sneaking in is a breeze.” she grinned.

“Nah. The Targaryen King hired the fiercest of the Faceless Men to slay his enemies. No one can get by her.” 

Aegon led her to a well-worn footpath, veering away from the sea and through the rushes to the farm fields and wider thoroughfares beyond. It was harvest time, and though the hour was late, there were still farmers working the fields of barley. Behind the men doing the cutting and the women who gathered the sheaves of grain, boys carried poles with lamps that flickered like precarious fireflies high above them all. It was a race against the autumn storms that threatened to ruin the crop, and the air was thick with song and the rhythmic thrashing of the scythes. Aegon whistled along with the rest, nodding to those that passed them and lending a hand when a heavily loaded wagon got caught in a rut.

By the time they reached the village, they'd acquired a few jolly companions and a skin of sour wine. When Arya turned the drink down, Aegon poked her in the side. "Oh, come on, 'Arry. I know you're just a lad, but have a go, just this once." He winked and she stomped on his foot, shoving the goat hide to his chest.

“Someone has to drag your wine-soaked carcass home before the dawn, you cretin.” Aegon was not above dreaming up the night's scheme just to turn Arya's history of living as a boy into some silly jape. Though his smile wasn't cruel, the wide brim of his hat obscured the rest of his face. She was contemplating another strike, when a man called out to them.

“Duncan! Where have you been?” Aegon turned away from her, responding to the new name with a booming 'Hallo!'. He skipped over to the small huddle of men who congregated below a lone streetlamp.

“Friends! Brothers! Forgive me. Forgive me.” Aegon’s voice changed, affecting accent of the Stormlands as he bowed foppishly before the group of men who quickly ensconced him, slapping his back and patting his ridiculous hat as he ruffled heads and cuffed shoulders in return.

“Where is your brawny ginger brother and his great foul mouth?”

“Hit his head. Brought my liddle brother instead. He’s a mouthy pisspot too, aren’t ye, ‘Arry?” He reached out from the throng, wrapping his arm around Arya’s neck and digging his knuckles into her cap, a retaliation for her earlier attack.

Arya pulled away, refusing to dignify them with a response. The others didn’t seem to mind. One held a bagpipe. A few of the others held stringed instruments, and another a flute. Aegon grabbed another young man by the shoulders, their foreheads dipping together intimately.

“Gunthor, this is the night, eh?” he asked, rocking with the other man who nodded fervently.

“Aye. If she’ll have me.”

“Of course, she’ll have ye. Come, let the celebration begin!” Aegon seized a guitar from a smaller lad, and on his cue the others began a slow waltz. They weaved through the village behind Gunthor, picking up men and improving their synchronicity as their procession grew. At some point, Gunthor started singing and other voices joined his, harmonizing wordlessly. Arya stalked behind, silent, until Aegon dropped back, prodding her with his instrument. With a begrudging sigh, she lifted her voice and sang along.

_“Oh Marleya…_

_My little barley flower_

_You’re like a pearl beneath the sands_

_You’re like a pearl beneath the sands_

_You bring the sunshine down from the heavens…”_

Gunthor’s voice grew stronger and steadier with each repetition until they stopped at last beneath the second-floor window of one of the few stone homes. Beneath the music, Arya could just catch feminine voices behind the walls, but the house stayed dark until finally the men started losing patience, breaking from the song to call out for Marleya and pitch pebbles at the window. A lamp turned on within, and a curvaceous silhouette swung open the shutters. 

“What’s all this noise about?” It was a girl’s voice, high but strong.

“Call Marleya,” One of their companions yelled.

“She can’t.”

“Why not?”

“She’s sick.”

“What kind of sick?”

“She has an incurable disease.”

“Should I be worried?” Gunthor broke in, his voice earnest.

“It’s that she can’t…move her ass.” A chorus of giggles erupted behind the girl, and then she was shoved out of the way and another form appeared in the window.

“Come on Gunthor. Are you crazy? Tonight?”

“It’s now or never, my love.”3

The window shuttered with a thud, and for a moment there was silence outside and in, before the light went out once more.

“Well, my friend, perhaps I was wrong. Maybe she’ll _not_ have ye.” Aegon clapped his hand on Gunthor’s back and the poor man wheezed as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. Just as Arya was starting to feel truly sorry for the unfortunate soul, a light blinked on once more, this time in the lower half of the house, and an old, gray woman swung the door open, beckoning the musicians inside. Gunthor had to be practically dragged, so greatly had the perceived refusal affected him.

“Sit the nitwit down and get him a drink. He deserves a bit of heartache for rousing us at this hour with his nonsense in the midst of the harvest.” The old woman who barked orders was bent with age, so she stood at half the height of the men traipsing in, but they all heeded her bidding, shoving tables to the side and pulling the caps from their heads in deference. Aegon and Arya pressed up against a wall, watching the chaos unfold. A stream of girls came tumbling down the stairs in their night shifts and shawls, hiding their shrieks of laughter behind their hands as they wedged into the corner opposite the men. Aegon sang to Arya, out of the corner of his mouth, “ _Girls and boys, come out to play, the moon doth shine as bright as day; come with a whoop, come with a call, come with a good will or not at all. 4” _He was a queer man, this dragon king.

Last of all, came a pretty girl with rosy cheeks aflame and a braided crown of honeyed hair. She stepped shyly before Gunthor who rose to his feet with a jolt, dipping down to place a chaste kiss on the girl’s lips to the resounding cheers of all.

“Shall we drink a toast?” Someone asked.

“We haven’t got anything.”

“We do!” Aegon pushed forward, revealing a hidden bottle of spirits, soliciting more cheers and clapping. The matron, Donella, ushered the younger girls forward to pour and pass the drinks and the couple kissed again as they clinked glasses and Aegon led the toast.

“May your joys be as deep as the ocean and your troubles as light as its foam,” He lowered his voice to a raspy brogue “and may your nights be pleasurable beyond measure.” Gunthor’s blush matched his new bride’s, and the merriment continued around them.

“You expecting to eat too?” The crone growled.

“It would be nice.” The men yelled. So Donella conducted the girls again, to bring out bread and bean paste. “Ugh, between the soldiers and the suitors, you’ll eat me out of house and home before the harvest has even come in. Marta! Not the anchovies! Lan, run out for more ale! And if Rory gives you trouble, tell him I’ll not say a word in his defense when the reeve comes ‘round and accuses him of withholding tithe.”

“So, what? Are they married now?” Arya asked Aegon in a hushed whisper.

“Close enough. It’s not like they can afford to go to a sept.” His breath was hot on her ear. “Lucky bastards get to avoid that mess.” Only Aegon would be stupid enough to say it was lucky to be poor. 

The packed room grew loud with voices and when the musicians started up again, the merriment flowed over into the yard again, where the dancing began, led by the couple of the hour, Marleya and Gunthor. Arya hung back, leaning against the stone wall as Aegon joined with the other young men, passing the bottle between them. 

“You have an admirer.” One of his companions nudged her, pointing to the flock of girls who had migrated near. “See the lass with the ribbon in her hair? She’s been eyeing you. Better ask her to dance, while the night is still young and before another gets the courage.” Arya scowled back at the man, and Aegon jumped in.

“Arry’s too shy to dance with a girl. The lad’s got two left feet anyhow.”

“I do not.” She stared boldly back at him and was rewarded by a flash of surprise across his arrogant face. “I am an excellent dancer.” The men chortled, and the bottle was passed before her like she’d need liquid courage to approach the flock of women. Foolish, spineless men. She pushed the drink away, and swept her cap from her head, tossing it to Aegon with a wink. “Don’t get murdered.”

When she approached the girls, the giggling reached a crescendo and a petite lass with a ribbon in her hair and a crooked smile was shuffled to the fore.

Arya grinned back. “Your name?”

“Matilde”

“That’s very pretty. I’m ‘Arry.” The girl offered her hand and they were swept into the circle of dancers, twirling and clapping beneath the harvest moon. The music was lively, and the patterns grew ever wilder as more joined in the revelry with each new round. At one point, Arya looked up to find herself locking arms with Aegon. He’d lost his floppy hat and sweat dripped from his temple. He had a look of untamed joy and she realized she felt much the same, grinning back at him like fiend.

When Gunthor and Marleya attempted to make a quiet exit, the musicians paused so the crowd could shout ribald encouragements to the young lovers. Arya took the opportunity to extricate herself from the increasingly bold Matilde, whose eyes grew brighter and hands grew more adventurous with each turn. She scanned the crowd for her wayward charge, only to find him skulking off with another maid, into the shadows.

“Oi! Duncan!” Arya caught up to them, prodding him in the ribs, with a stick.

“Get lost, little brother.”

She prodded him again. “No way. Can’t do my job if you disappear into the night. Plus, what would your poor Arianne think of you now?”

“Who is Arianne?” The woman whipped around, glaring at Aegon, and Arya cackled.

“Only, his one true love.”

“I said get lost, teller of lies!” Aegon swatted at her, and she danced away, still laughing. “Marta here, is my new one true love.” He gave the girl what he must have assumed was a disarming smile, but the crack of her hand on his cheek had Arya doubling over in laughter.

“My name is Mona! You cad!” The girl marched away, into the night.

“Must their names all start with M?” Aegon complained, rubbing his cheek. “And don’t I pay you to protect me from such attacks?”

“Oh? Did that girl wound your pride? Make you feel the tiniest niggling of shame? Pull your head just partway out of your ass?”

“Gods, you are an impertinent chit.” His hand, though, was gentle as it swept through her sweaty hair, belying his aggrieved tone. “Come, if there is no further merriment to be had, let’s away. The sun will be rising soon enough, and we have another long day of courtly obligations ahead.”

“Speak for yourself. My duties end at daybreak. I’m going to sleep like a babe.”

\---

When they reached the shore, the tide was still too high, so they sprawled across a rock, staring up into the waning night's sky.

"So, what was that all about?" Arya asked. "The serenade and the farmers and the dancing. What was the purpose?"

"Must everything have a purpose?"

"Yes. When you're a king."

"Well then…I suppose it was a reminder, that there is life beyond the games of would-be king and queens. What do the likes of Gunthor and Marleya care who sits on the Iron Throne? They’re worried about the harvest and making sure their children are fed and safe and that they stored enough for winter. They can’t control when the rains come or when they leave. Nor can they prepare for the chaos of highborn politics boiling over and wiping out all of their modest plans.”

“Well, the Lannisters are monsters.” Arya knew. She’d seen it firsthand.

“Yes…but it’s my army that’s eating through their stores and scaring their women and girls. And before that, it was the Tyrell army laying siege to Storm’s End after Stannis Baratheon decided he should be the king and then abandoned his vassals to disappear to parts unknown.”

“So, what are you saying? That you are no better than Cersei and Stannis and the Tyrells?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed, rising onto his elbows. “I _want_ to be better.”

“So, be better.” This was a side of Aegon she had not seen before. Like his armor of bravado had been stripped away under the cover of night.

He barked out a hollow laugh. “Easier said than done.” He gazed down at her. “Though, maybe not for you…the girl who escaped King’s Landing and survived the War of the Five Kings. The same girl who walked right into the House of Black and White and then walked right back out again. Perhaps, you could do it.”

“I’d never want to rule,” she blanched.

“Well then, what do you want, Arya Stark?”

She sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees. “To be free.”

“Aren’t you already? There is nothing tethering you down.”

“Not while Cersei Lannister lives and breathes. Not when House Frey still stands and the Boltons hold Winterfell.”

“So, what then? After I retake the Iron Throne, you’re going to continue on your quest for vengeance?”

“Yes.”

“It could take years, Arya. You may never be free.” His voice took on an uncharacteristically earnest tone, and Arya glowered as he continued. “Why does avenging your family rest on your head? You were just a girl. You could leave it all behind. Explore the world. Fall in love like Marleya and Gunthor. Spend every night dancing and every day sleeping and stuffing your face with grapes and lemon cakes.”

“Well, you were a babe when your family was murdered, and yet here you stand, raising great armies against the people responsible for killing them.” Her blood ran hot through her veins and she leapt to her feet. “You can’t even remember your mother or your sister. I still see my father dying in my sleep. My family’s faces haunt me everywhere I turn. Who are you to tell me to leave vengeance behind?”

“Arya, that’s not what I meant-“

“Is it because I’m a girl? Does that make my pain less real? My quest less valid?”

“No. Arya, stop-” He paced after her, grabbing for her arm, but she twisted away.

“Don’t _touch_ me!”

“Arya, I’m sorry!” She could feel him following behind her as she made her way down the beach. The tide was out enough for her to wade into the cave and back to the secret door. This time, she led the way back up the tower, not bothering to lend the for once quiet king a hand, though she could hear his footsteps several meters behind.

The sun was rising over the horizon when they reached his chambers, but Aegon blocked the door when she tried to leave his bedchambers. “I didn’t mean to imply that justice for your family was not important, nor that you are incapable of delivering it.” The morning sun washed over his face, casting the many planes of his face in stark relief. “Please, forgive my impudent mouth. I did not mean offence. It’s only that I envy you, sometimes. You have an independence that I have never known, and I mistook that for freedom.”

They stood, staring at each other. The shadows of the window casements seemed to hold him like a cage and there was a haunted aspect to the hollows of his cheeks and the shadows under his eyes. Her rage dimmed.

“Do _you_ even _want_ to be king?” Though, she believed she already knew the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Traditional sea shanty:  
> 2\. The whole serenade scene, including the dialog at the window, is heavily cribbed from the film, Happy as Lazzaro, which I fell asleep to the other night and proceeded to have extremely strange dreams about.  
> 3\. 'Girls and Boys Come Out to Play' – a nursery rhyme that has existed since at least 1708.


	6. A Thousand Errors They Would Make

Sansa relaxed into the hot, spring-fed bath, settling back until only her lips and nose breached the steamy surface. She closed her eyes, remembering.

_What are you trying to tell me? That there's another secret Targaryen, vying for the Iron Throne?_

_(Not a trueborn Targaryen…)_

Stars danced behind her lids.

_(…and he has no interest in ruling the Seven Kingdoms, I promise you.)_

_What are you saying?_

Slipping completely below the water, she let the weight of Jon's secret pull her down.

_(I keep telling you…I'm not a Stark. I'm not your brother, Sansa. Trueborn or half.)_

_Stop._

_You're the very image of father._

_(It is not uncommon for a nephew to resemble his uncle.)_

Days had passed since Jon's revelation, but her blood pounded still in her ears, hot and heady, like he'd only just told her. It had taken her a foolishly long time to understand what Jon was trying to say as she stared at him across his solar, her eyes flitting helplessly to Lord Reed, who only gazed back, stoic as ever.

_(Lord Eddard was my uncle_.)

_But you're too young to be Uncle Brandon's, and Uncle Benjen was too young…_

Jon looked pained as understanding reached her at last. Her chest strained.

_You're Lyanna's..._ Winter's rose.

_(Yes.)_

Stolen by the Dragon Prince.

_…and Rheagar Targaryen's…_

(Bastard.)

When he said it, she had been too thrown, too off balance to hear the loathing Jon bit into the word. The ground had shifted beneath her feet, the sky slanting so she was sliding down once more, drowning, and all she had the sense to ask, in breathless terror, was, _Who else knows?_

"Sansa!" Her name came, muffled, but when hands disturbed the warm water, grasping at her arms, she woke from her reverie and resurfaced with a gasp. "For heavens sakes, Sansa! Are you trying to scare me witless! I'm already frantic over Theon's trial." Rivulets raced down her brow, dripping into her heavy lashes as she blinked into Jeyne's concerned eyes.

"Sorry Jeyne, I was only daydreaming."

"I implore you, dream with your head above the water." Jeyne stood, shaking her head, frowning at her now soaked sleeves. "You're as bad as Arya used to be when we'd swim in the godswood. She'd challenge the other girls to try and hold their breath for as long as she. Once, long after the others had given up, she floated to the surface, face down. When I turned her over, with tears burning my eyes, the little demon sprang to life, spouting water in my face, cackling like the Crone."

"I was just wetting my hair, not attempting a lark." Sansa squeezed her heavy locks, twisting them together over the tub's edge, to dry. The image of Arya laughing in the godswood burned her eyelids, a shade of childhood beckoning tears she couldn’t afford.

"Be that as it may, you are not a fish, Sansa. You won't sprout gills beneath the surface if you stay down too long. You'll drown."

"Duly noted." She closed her eyes again, trying to regain a sense of equilibrium, but Jeyne continued prodding.

"Are you unwell, my lady? You're flushed."

"Of course, I'm flushed. I'm poaching in a steaming bath." Her irritation slipped out and she felt contrite. Jeyne did not deserve her sullen mood. Theon's trial was only a few hours away, and the young woman had stayed awake half the night, fretting over him. Now, she was fretting over Sansa.

"It's only, you haven't seemed entirely yourself, the past few days. You've been…" _Spinning like a top into oblivion?_ "…distracted."

Sansa rose with help from Jeyne and one of her maids who wrapped her in a robe. She laced her fingers through Jeyne's, relaxing her face into an easy smile. "I suppose I'm just tired. In the songs, they always leave out the verses where Jonquil spends her days mediating the lords' petty disputes or tallying sacks of grain." Jeyne squeezed back.

"Well, when your Florian returns, you must beseech the king to appoint someone else to those duties. You and your knight will need time to reacquaint yourselves,” she teased, but Sansa's belly dropped. She had no Florian; only an over-eager, impatient heir with more ambition than advantage, and a trail of ruined women behind him…and, likely, ahead. Harry was due back to Winterfell any day, after a decisive victory at the Dreadfort and Sansa's stomach roiled at the thought.

She mustered a smile, nonetheless.

"Alas, the king works harder than us all. He does not deserve a princess who shuns her duties for a knight, especially while she is still wed to another."

Her maids laced her into layers of mauve silk and mulberry velvet while Jeyne fussed with her own hair. "Where is the romance in that, princess? Think on it. This may be your only chance for a true love affair." Sansa gaped at her friend, scandalized. "And wouldn't it be sweet, to be lovers first, before you are man and wife?" It would not be sweet. Sansa had a taste of what an affair with Harry would entail, and she saw no appeal, with him.

"I must stay a maid, to annul my marriage to Tyrion," she reminded her friend.

"There are ways to take a lover and still preserve your maidenhead." Jeyne whispered, and Sansa marveled at her friend's audacity. After all she had endured, Jeyne had a spirit as hardy and irrepressible as the yarrow that bloomed across the North in the summer, spreading its pale yellow cheer wherever the sun kissed the earth, from barrow to marsh, ditch to crag, no matter the quality of the soil or the quantity of rain. It stirred something within Sansa, and her cheeks burned at Jeyne's bold words. She pressed her eyes shut, but it was not the Young Falcon she imagined before her. Darker eyes took her in. A kiss, searing and too brief, whispered across her lips. _See? What consumes you, devastates me too._

_I'm not your brother, Sansa._

_Enough_. She was being foolish. To conflate the Jon that she knew before with the Jon she knew now was folly. The man who chased her smiling lips with his own down a dark corridor, and burned through her restraint over darker waters, was wooing a different woman. Alayne was just another ghost, haunting Sansa through all the secret corridors of her mind. Jon’s disclosure would not revive her.

_Who else knows?_

_(That lives? Myself. Howland. Now…you. Your father was the only other. Sansa, this is a dangerous secret. The kind that starts wars and kills thousands.)_

As if she didn't understand. Only moments before Jon's revelation, the northern lords had packed the king's solar, railing against two Targaryens living half a world away. Sansa knew better than most how the North viewed the disgraced house _. Madmen. Rapists. Inbred Dragonspawn._ If they learned that their own king, already struggling to pull together a weakened kingdom, was the son of the man who had kidnapped and raped their beloved Lyanna Stark, sparking the flames that led to Lord Brandon and Rickard's deaths and a rebellion that ended the lives of thousands of northmen…why, they would turn on Jon at once.

_Then, why are you telling me?_ She had asked him, eyes flying again to Howland in desperation.

( _No more secrets. We promised._ ) He had looked at her with such intensity that she was forced to turn away once more.

_If anyone else finds out, you'll lose the North_! _You must remain Ned Stark's son. The lords will never back a Targaryen_. When she braved another glance, Jon's eyes were mutinous even as Lord Reed nodded back at her.

_(You think I don't know that! That's why I'm telling you. You, of all people should know whose claim you are actually backing. There is still time-)_

_No! You are still a Stark. This changes nothing._

But it changed everything. She had fled Jon's solar a short time later, her thoughts too jumbled to handle anything more than an awkward pledge to keep his secret safe and a hasty word of gratitude that he had entrusted her with the truth. Only now, after days of strained silences, and painfully awkward brushes with the king, did she begin to understand. She had asked the wrong questions and offered only the weakest absolution. _You are still a Stark. This changes nothing._

\-----

She observed him, from a distance. The Great Hall grew crowded as the White Wolf's court filtered in for the upcoming trials. The king stood apart, head bowed in discussion with Val, who had only just returned with the Ironmen held in Torrhen's Square. Though Sansa had never seen a Targaryen in the flesh, Jon had none of their oft-recited characteristics. In the dim light, his dark brown hair and grey eyes appeared as black as the cloak resting upon his shoulders, his face as long and drawn as the stone kings of winter standing sentinel deep beneath their feet. It'd be easier to sell Ned Dayne as a secret Targaryen, with his laughing violet-blue eyes and silk-white hair. Whatever Prince Rheagar had left Jon, it was buried deep within.

All the questions that she hadn't asked, burned at her lips. She yearned to know the details of Jon's birth and his upbringing with Howland. The complicity of her father in Jon's secret, made her ache to speak to him, just one more time. Longing pressed at her sternum and kept her awake at night. _Did Jon grow up knowing who he was? Did he feel unwanted? Unloved? Did he ache for the mother he never knew? Did he resent having to hide himself from the world?_

_Was he as lonely as she?_

Yet, whenever there was a moment where she found herself beside him, her body would rebel. Her heart would beat like a caged bird in her chest. Her tongue grew heavy and thick, and she would flee the room with a flurry of excuses before she ruptured like an overripe peach.

"Princess, are you well?" Baelish's voice cut in, too close, and she tilted her eyes away from Jon to the man beside her.

"Quite, my lord. And you?"

"Quite. They make a stunning pair, do they not?"

"Hm?" She asked, distractedly as Littlefinger's lips twisted in a knowing smirk.

"Why the king and the wilding princess, of course. Were you not just watching them?" His eyes narrowed, and she flashed Jon and Val another glance, before smiling faintly back on Baelish.

"I hadn't noticed where my eyes had settled. I was lost in thought, my lord."

"Still, my question stands. Would not the beautiful warrior make a fine wife for your half-beast brother?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Be careful with your words, Lord Baelish. There are those that would take offence to you speaking of our king so." She kept her tone mild, and his green eyes glinted slyly back at her.

"I meant no harm, my Princess. The north will need a fierce, beastly leader to keep its hard-fought independence. Eyes in King's Landing may be turned inward for now, but this moment’s peace will not last forever. And you still evade my question. What do you think of the pair?"

"Val is no princess and Jon has already more or less gained the wildings support. He needs a wife with more to offer."

"True enough. In that case, here comes another fruit, ripe for plucking." Sansa followed Baelish's eyes to Lady Wynyfryd Manderly, gliding into the Great Hall in a gown of beaded burgundy, offset by a string of rose pearls gracing her slender neck. She stopped before the king, falling into a graceful presentation that Jon's eyes swept over. Sour bile rose in her throat. "As I understand it, the king in the North has still not fully won over his wealthiest, most well-connected bannerman. Though, the Manderly maid looks eager to shed a little blood in your brother's bed in order to bring her grandfather to the table. Surely, you can see the advantages in _that_ union.

Satin saved her from responding by gesturing from across the hall. "Pardon me, Lord Baelish, I fear I am needed elsewhere."

Before she could extricate herself fully, Petyr leaned close, whispering, "Careful sweetling. Though you were raised apart, he _is_ still your brother. I may be but a pesky Southron interloper here, but even I know that the lords will not look kindly on any unnatural family relations between their young sovereigns, especially those favored by certain enemies of the North."

Sansa pulled away, her heart racing and legs weak. In her desperation to save Jon's claim and Winterfell, she had given away too much in telling Baelish of Jon's proposal to Alayne.

_I am not your brother, Sansa._

He should never have told her. 

\----

She barely registered the accusations against Asha Greyjoy, Theon's sister, and the leader of the Ironborn who invaded Deepwood Motte before their eventually defeat by Alyssane Mormont. Beside her, the king sat, just as he had in the previous trial. This time, however, his hand did not bridge the distance between them, nor did she reach out for him. Instead, she stared at the accused, seeing nothing. She was frightened. Littlefinger already watched them with suspicious eyes, and now she suspected Jon's secret must be writ across her face every time she looked at the king. It was hard enough to see him as her brother when she believed it to be true. Now, she could hardly meet his eyes. Snapping to attention when Asha Greyjoy was given a chance to answer to the charges brought against her, Sansa finally really looked the woman over, standing before them, uncowed.

"I'll take the black." The Ironborn called out, with a wry smirk.

The king responded. "There are no women in the Night's Watch."

"Well then, I'll take freedom." The crowd jeered, and Jon tried to catch Sansa's eye before Asha continued. "I heard you let the Frey men, men who aided in raping women and mutilating children, choose the black. Yet I, who simply held a castle that had been abandoned by its lord, and kept my men from harming a single hair on an innocent's head, am not afforded the same opportunity? Because I don't have a cock swinging between my legs?" Gasps from the crowd. "Where is the honor in that?"

"If we banish you from the North, you'll only return one day to raid our lands again. I've not the patience nor the time for the Ironborn's broken promises." Jon called.

"Well then, I suppose you have only two options left, Wolf King." Asha's tone was mocking, and Sansa looked closer at the Ironborn woman. She was lean and long legged, in black breeches. Her short black hair was tied loosely at her neck, revealing a thin face and a hawkish nose, tempered by a wickedly impertinent grin that reminded her of the boy she had grown up with. "Take off my head or take me to bed."

Again, the crowd jeered, and Sansa burned. The Greyjoy captive was making a mockery of their justice.

"As fascinating as your offer is," Jon answered, "the wolf is not tempted by the squid." The crowd laughed this time, but the king cut them off. "Asha Greyjoy, you are hereby fined five thousand gold dragons. Until which time the debt is paid in full, you are forbidden from leaving our lands and your ships will remain in the crown's possession. You are free to live and to earn your repayment by any lawful means, though if you should break faith again, I _will_ be taking your head."

The Hall stood silent now, and Sansa hazarded a glance in Jon's direction. He looked calm but stern, betraying no uncertainty in his decision. He had decided his sentence before the trial even began. After a moment, he nodded to Maege, who prodded her men-at-arms to action, cutting away the Greyjoy's wrist binds.

"And what of my men?" Asha asked, before she could be fully dismissed from the Hall.

"I suggest they choose the black," was all Jon offered before holding a hand out to Sansa. "Bring the other Greyjoy. We'll resume shortly." Sansa stood, letting herself be led away by the king into the privacy of the gallery beyond.

"Are you well?" He asked, as soon as the door closed behind them.

"What? Yes, of course. Why does everyone keep asking me that?" But she couldn't meet his eye. He was standing too close. Her cheeks burned. It was too warm. Trying to step away, he stayed her with a hand at her elbow.

"You lie." He murmured, low, and _why was she so warm_? "It upsets you. That I'm not a Stark."

"You _are_ a Stark." She snapped, still trying to pull away, but he only led her into the filtered light of the window.

"Sansa," His words came out in an anguished flood. "My grandfather murdered your uncle and grandfather. My father stole your aunt and started a war. You have every right to be upset. I'll give up the crown. Just say the words and I'll make you queen. I'll leave the north. Just tell me what you want me to do." He didn't understand anything, and he was standing _too_ close.

"Jon!" She hissed. "You are _not_ my enemy. Your grandfather murdered _your_ uncle and grandfather as well! Your father…" _Why must he be so obtuse?_ To say he'd give up the crown…"Lyanna Stark was your mother. You are a Stark, regardless of who your father was. I've already told you; this changes _nothing_. You are the King in the North! No matter how many times you try to deny it. I want you to be king. I _fought_ for you to be king." Her veins were going to lift from her body.

"Then why can't you look at me? Why do you flinch every time I draw near? You hate that I'm a Targaryen. Admit it. It is I who should be standing before you in the Great Hall, to answer for the crimes of my family." A shiver ran down her spine and she pulled away once more, trying to find the words that wouldn’t betray her feelings.

"You know nothing of my heart, Jon Snow." She glared up at him. "If we were called to answer for our parents' transgressions than am I not just as accountable for the crimes my father committed against your family? He took up arms against the Targaryens, in rebellion. He fought on the same side as Gregor Clegane, who raped Elia Martell as Ser Amory Lorch stabbed Princess Rhaenys…your _sister_. She was just a child, Jon." She blinked up at him, willing him to listen.

"Sansa-"

"I heard the stories, in King's Landing. What they did to her…" She pulled away and Jon let her. "And I saw what kind of king Robert was, firsthand. Aerys may have been mad, but Robert was a drunken, lecherous fool with no interest in ruling and now all of Westeros is paying the price for the void he left behind. There are wronged parties and villains on each side of every major conflict, Jon. The whole world will burn if justice is always looking back instead of forward."

His lips tugged upward, in that rare way that made her stomach tighten. "As ever, Sansa, you are the wisest voice in the room."

"Well, when there are only two voices…" This earned her a wolfish grin, and her stupid heart leapt. Everything would be easier if he didn't treat her thus; like her thoughts and feeling mattered. It would be one thing for a brother to give a sister an ear on occasion, but Jon was not her brother and when he sought her out, there was no scent of duty in his intentions. He made her feel powerful and heard. And he had power over her, in turn.

She felt lit up from within every time they spoke, matching her energy to his as her body sang with awareness at his presence. She took in the breadth of his shoulders as he leaned closer and her blood hummed when his lashes briefly shaded his smoke fire eyes. Now, she caught herself canting down the buttons of his jacket as his hand swept low and, _by the Seven_ , _were all men's trousers so fitted?_

Before her thoughts could further unravel, Satin pushed open the door, taking in his king and princess with bemusement. "Theon Greyjoy has been presented, your Graces."

Jon sighed, pulling away from her slowly. "Very well." He stalked back into the Great Hall, leaving Sansa and Satin in his wake.

"Is everything alright, Princess?"

"Not you too." She muttered at the steward, who quirked his head in question before letting her pass.

The Great Hall was eerily silent despite the crowded room, and Sansa recalled that most had not yet seen the devastation of Theon Greyjoy. She gazed at him now, shoulders curled inward, his lean frame looking as fragile as a house of cards and thought he looked better than he had even a few short weeks ago. His skin was pale but clean and though he still resembled nothing of the arrogantly handsome boy of her youth, he had gained some weight back. She had ensured that his hair was trimmed to his scalp only days before, obscuring the extent of his hair loss. Still, there was little to be done to hide the way his body shook and rocked, or how his face twitched as his eyes darted across the stone floor in random patterns.

Taking her seat, she sought out the king's eyes, pleading silently for mercy. With everything else swirling between them, she hadn't brought up Theon's case to him in private, nor warned him of her intentions to speak on his behalf. As Maege began reciting Theon's many betrayals and crimes against House Stark, she practiced her arguments _. He didn't kill Bran and Rickon. He paid for his crimes. He is clearly not a threat._

Her monologue was broken by Jon's harsh voice, pounding over the stonework. "Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn took you into their home and raised you amongst their trueborn children. They treated you like family. Robb Stark saw you as a _brother_."

Theon shook harder.

"He _trusted_ you. Bran and Rickon looked up to you." Pain and rage were laced through his words and Sansa understood, too late, that there was history between the two men. She started to rise, but he shot an arm out, holding her in place with a glare, whispering fiercely. "I will not hear you defend the man who betrayed our family, Sansa. _I will not_." She glared back, rising to her feet anyway, but before she could speak, there was a parting of the crowd, and Theon began muttering, "No, no, no…"

"Shh, Theon. It's alright." Jeyne's voice was soft and tremulous as she stepped beside the now quaking man.

"Lady Poole-" Jon started, as Sansa swept around the high table to her friend's side. Jeyne was pale and drawn, but her voice was clear.

"Your Grace, if I may, I would like to speak on Lord Greyjoy's behalf." The crowd edged closer, in anticipation, and Sansa caught sight of Lord Baelish whispering something to Lords Glover and Ashwood.

"Lady Mormont, clear the Hall. I'll speak with Lady Poole alone," the king commanded, and the lords and ladies groaned. Sansa escorted Jeyne to the table, giving the lady her seat as Maege barked out orders for the Hall to clear. She motioned for Satin to bring another seat, but Jon stopped him.

"I meant alone, Princess." The steel in his tone clashed with the warmth in his eyes. Something was afoot.

"But-" Moments ago, he offered her the crown, and now he would dismiss her from her own friend's testimony? Sansa could not just leave her friend in her time of need.

Jeyne placed her hand over Sansa's arm. "Princess, it's alright. I am grateful for everything you have given me, truly, but I am prepared to speak with the king, alone." The slightest breeze could knock her over. Instead, it was the gentle tug of Satin that reminded her feet to move despite the confusing sting of betrayal in her eyes. The doors beyond the Great Hall were blown open and the lords congregated in the yard beyond, warming themselves by the outdoor fires. Satin deposited her in a sheltered alcove where Theon stood under guard, before turning back to the hall. Apparently, ‘alone’ did not exclude the steward.

"What could they have to say to each other that I cannot hear?" She asked, more to herself than the humbled form before her.

"I…I don't know, my lady."

"Don't speak!" The guard reprimanded Theon, but Sansa waved him away. Of course, Theon didn't know. He had no answers for her. He could not tell her why he betrayed Robb, imprisoned her brothers, nor why he faked their deaths. A wave of fear hit her square in the chest as she stared into the yard beyond. If she could not understand why Theon, raised amongst the Stark children like a brother, could betray their House, how could they hope to retain the loyalty of their other bannerman.

Lord Glover and Lady Mormont laughed at something Lord Baelish said while a short distance away Val was deep in conversation with Asha Greyjoy. How many lingering glances between supposed siblings would Lord Glover need to observe for him to heed the poisoned whispers of Littlefinger? Sansa's father banished the sole male heir to Bear Island and Lady Maege lost her eldest daughter and own heir as a result of Robb's missteps. If Jon made a decision that lead to Alyssane's death, would that be the final straw for House Mormont? Would their mistakes undo the fragile threads that held the northern houses together? The wildings only recently lowered their swords against the northmen. If the food supplies stretched too thin and babes grew cold at their mothers' breasts, would the Drowned God's sanction to reave and rape hold more appeal for the Free Folk than the strict tenets of House Stark? And what of the northern lords with looser ties to Winterfell? Lady Barbrey lost her husband and all hope of House Dustin's continuation in Robert's Rebellion. When the Lannister armies finally marched north with their gold and their swords, what reason would she have to support Rhaegar Targaryen's son in his disputes against southron aggressions?

Sansa traced the fault lines of their kingdom and found too many to bear. The nights would grow longer and colder and their enemies would advance, breaking through more seams than she could sew back together, rising up faster than Jon could cut them down. A thousand errors they would make. A thousand regrets waited in the shadows.

"I know that look," Gendry's voice cut through her fog. "It's the one ye get when your solving problems that don’t exist yet." She glared up at him and he bowed before her with a slight flourish.

"That was almost passable, Ser Gendry." she quipped, taking in his clean brow and formal attire.

"Aye, well I've had a very _determined_ teacher." He extended his hand, and she took it, letting him lead her into the yard. She had been pushing hard for him to present himself as the knight he was. The crown needed his skills as a blacksmith, but she needed him to rise higher, so he could continue to be her friend. "Come Princess, while ye have a moment, Lady Cerwyn and I have something to show ye." Jonelle met them halfway across the yard and Sansa held in her astonishment over the easy familiarity between the lady and the blacksmith. She did not know the two had grown close.

"Gendry, can this not wait?"

"No, it cannot. The king won't finish his business faster, just because you sulk outside the door."

"Nor will your apparent unease make whatever judgement the king does pass go down easier with the lords, I should think." Jonelle added, gently looping an arm beneath hers. "You are careful with your feelings, Princess, and I know that is no easy feat. But when you do reveal them, the lords take in your reactions for their own political machinations. Do not give them unfair advantage." 

The woman had a point, though Sansa felt like a piece in a Cyvasse game, being moved across the yard toward the smithy by the blacksmith and the lady.

"What do you have to show me?"

"Come," Gendry shed all stiffness once they passed beneath the threshold to his domain, practically hopping towards a back table. "We've been working on it for weeks, but we needed Val to show up with the finishing pieces before we could present it to you."

"Val is in on this as well?" Her curiosity was piqued, though begrudgingly.

"Aye, and Ned and Lady Edie as well." He grinned back at her, his blue eyes alight, and she felt lighter, in response. Gendry was everything a man should be; handsome, gentle, and kind. One day he'd make a good husband to the woman lucky enough to catch him.

A lifetime ago, her father had promised her a similar union.

_When you're old enough, I'll make you a match with someone whose worthy of you._

_Someone who is brave, and gentle and strong._

If she had listened to Willa and stayed Alayne, that woman could have been her. Would it not be better to tie herself to one who felt as comfortable and familiar as her worn leather slippers, than a man who ignites desire and revulsion in equal measure? Gendry may not love her as a man is meant to love a woman, but there was affection between them all the same.

There were times, when Harry's lips were pressed against hers, and he let her fingers dance across his jawline, that she felt a flickering of heat, a tentative flame in her belly, before he lost patience and demanded more. Then the dance became a duel and she was too busy drawing lines in the sand to keep her nascent flame of desire from flickering out. Harry did not like being denied. Fortunately, he also had little taste for force. He'd grow bored, and seek diversion elsewhere. Sansa held few delusions about her ability to hold his interest after they were wed. In fact, since their reunion in White Harbor, he had demanded little more than public displays of her affection; small assurances that she would hold up her end of their bargain; an end that in recent days felt too steep to pay. But pay she must. She could hardly marry the blacksmith.

Gendry stood before her now, holding a long object, wrapped in crushed velvet.

"What is this then?"

He shifted from foot to foot, with bullish energy. "Well…", he looked to Jonelle, and the lady stepped in to assist.

"It was Lord Dayne's idea," she explained. "When he came to Castle Cerwyn with the king. He was digging through our library one day and found the plans."

"For what?" Sansa asked, impatient for the two to unveil their surprise.

"A Myrish Eye!" Gendry exclaimed. "We made one for you!" He laid his parcel on the table, carefully folding back the velvet covering to revealing a long, elegant bronze tube with polished ironwood legs carved to resemble fiery comets. "Ned sent me the plans while we were still in Torrhen's square, and while I could figure out some bits based on the drawings, I never learned my letters-"

"-before now." Jonelle cut in with a smile.

"Aye, before now. Lady Jonelle has been helping me," he ducked his head as his ears turned pink. "With my letters and the far-eye. She even wrote to Lady Dustin to procure the lenses. That's what Val brought with her from the barrowlands." The torchlight flickered over the gleaming bronze, and the metal came alive.

"Well-" Gendry, prodded. "Whaddya think?"

"Why?"

"Why?" His eyes bugged out at her. "Well, why not? The gods know how much ye love the stars, my lady. Do ye not recall all the nights we spent around the fire with you pointing out every bloody constellation in the sky? We thought this would please you." He looked to Jonelle, eyes wide in bafflement.

"Does it not please you, my lady?" Jonelle asked, gently, and Sansa sniffed, feeling ridiculous at the tears streaking down her cheeks. "You carry so many responsibilities on the ground, that we thought a journey into the sky might offer respite from the burden."

"Of course…of course it pleases me," she managed, pathetically wiping at her face. Jonelle elbowed Gendry, and he lurched forward with a clearly used kerchief, causing Sansa to sputter into a mortifying sob.

"Gods, Sans-" He wrapped his firm arms around her, clapping a giant hand to her back, forcing the air out her lungs. "You don' have to lie. If ye hate it, we'll take it back."

"Don't you dare!" She managed to sniff, but the tears kept coming as she made a mess of Gendry's shirt. "I said it pleases me, you oaf. I love it!"

"Ye have a strange way of showing it. Quit your sobbing then, woman." She choked out something between a whimper and a laugh when Jonelle muttered a reprimand at Gendry's rough efforts at comfort. After a few more sniffles she finally pulled herself together enough to pull away.

"I'm sorry," she tried to explain. "I don't know what is wrong me with me. I love it. I truly do. This is the nicest gift I've ever received." She hated the tears that still threatened to fall, despite all efforts to control them. It was one of the great frustrations of her life; this weakness of emotion. It overwhelmed her now, for her words were true. The Myrish Eye, crafted by Gendry, imagined by Ned, guided and procurred by Jonelle and Val was a manifestation of fellowship and understanding that even now, with the proof laid out before her, Sansa couldn't believe she had attained. What had she done to earn their love? How could she hope to keep it? 

"Do not apologize, my princess. Perhaps Gendry will better understand the nuances of tears when he holds his firstborn in his arms for the first time. Let's see you remain dry-faced then, Blacksmith. We don't only cry when we are sad."

"Aye," he scratched at his neck. "Fair enough. Still, this was meant to be a happy distraction-" He cut himself off with a glance at the door, and Sansa jerked out of her sentimentality.

"A distraction?" She narrowed her eyes at the flustered smith. 

"I just meant-"

"Did the king put you up to this?"

"What? No." Gendry glared back at her, his own ire rising. "As I said, we've been working on this for weeks. He didn't even know about the lens until yesterday-"

"But he proposed that you give it to me now? During the trial?"

"Well…" Gendry and Lady Jonelle eyed each other, warily, and Sansa turned on her heel towards the yard. "Wait Sansa!"

"Thank you for the gift, Ser Gendry and Lady Jonelle, but I have been away long enough."

When she returned the yard, it had all but emptied and it was clear the lords had returned to the Great Hall. Perhaps, she had already missed the king's judgement. Rushing across the hard-packed earth, she could hear Jonelle and Gendry calling to her, but she ignored them, fury and fear racing through her veins. Jon would condemn Theon and she'd lose Jeyne once more. Just as she reached the steps, however, she was intercepted by Lady Poole herself, followed by Satin. 

"Sansa!" Jeyne's face was alight with happiness, not sorrow. "I have the most wonderful news! I am to be married in the godswood! Tonight!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, this chapter was really hard to write and somehow turned into over 5000 words without getting exactly where I wanted it to be. I also lost an edited draft and had to re-do a lot of this. 😶
> 
> Finally, I decided I just need to post it so I can move on with the story. Next chapter is another Sansa POV, featuring a wedding and some real conversations between Jon and Sansa where they move past the shock of Jon's revelation, and explain what went down with Theon's trial and why Sansa is so confused.


	7. All Wind and Hunger and Broken Glass

_A marriage in the godswood, beneath the heart tree and before the gods._

"Are you sure, Jeyne? You truly want to marry him?" Sansa asked, numb. While she had been lured away to the smithy with Gendry and Lady Cerwyn, the king passed his judgement on the traitor, Theon Greyjoy. He would escape beheading through a bedding.

It was one thing for Jeyne to want Theon freed, but quite another to bind herself to him willingly in such a permanent way. It came as a bit of a shock to Sansa. Jeyne had only just escaped a horrible marriage. And Theon… well, he wasn't exactly the gallant knight Jeyne was always teasing about. He was barely still a man, if rumors were to be believed.

"Yes, I'm sure. And, as I've already told you, it's the best way to keep Theon safe." In the weeks since they'd retaken Winterfell Jon had, unbeknownst to Sansa, made official his wardship over Jeyne Poole. After his private audience with the lady, the king had emerged to not only free Theon but also to announce the disgraced lord's immediate marriage to the crown's ward. Theon and his new bride would live as members of the king's household, which placed them under Jon's protection until they paid off the relief owed to the crown. Sansa admitted that it was an elegant solution in many respects, but it would not be popular with the lords and she still didn't understand how Jon had come to his decision. As far as she could tell, he loathed Theon.

Her questions would have to wait, for as soon as Jeyne announced her impending nuptials, Satin ferried them towards Sansa's chambers and away from where the king still held court in the Great Hall. Now, the three stood in her solar with Lady Cerwyn and Gendry besides, as Jeyne beamed at them.

"But, can he even-" Sansa was unsure how to put the question lightly, "-consummate the marriage?"

"Buggering hells," Gendry muttered, and Sansa shot him a glare. " Sorry, Princess. If you'll not be needing me, I'll just err… excuse myself." He backed out and into the corridor as Satin made to follow.

"I'll have the guest house prepared for the newlyweds and let the kitchens know to prepare a feast."

"A small one, Satin. In the gallery, I should think. Amiable company only. I'll leave the coordination to your discretion."

"Consider it done, your Grace."

"And Theon will need another wash and better attire."

After the men had left, she turned back to Jeyne once more. "Jeyne, I mean no disrespect, but I do not want you forced into a marriage that cannot give you all that you desire and deserve. Theon may be your friend, but can you love him as a husband?"

"I can and I do," Jeyne's smile spoke the truth of it, however incomprehensible the possibility seemed. "I promise you. This is what I want. Though ours is not the love of songs, I would take no other and I can hardly believe, after all that has passed, that Theon and I will be together, freely, at last." She grasped Sansa to her in a breathless flurry. "I believed my only happiness to be behind me, but you and Jon have given me the bravery to look for it ahead." Tears pricked Sansa's eyes, and she sagged into her friend's embrace. Who was she to question another's heart?

With the aid of her lady's maids, they searched for something suitable for a bride, landing on an airy gown of the palest yellow that brought out the flecks of amber in Jeyne's eyes and did not overpower her slight frame. The high, embroidered collar and long, diaphanous sleeves hid her scars, and if they tucked her hair just so, the cold air would brighten her cheeks and she'd look like the girl she should be.

"We've no time to sew your maiden's cloak." Sansa worried at her lip, surveying the contents of her wardrobe strewn across her bedchamber.

"No matter. I'm no maiden." Jeyne's voice had an edge that belied the smile on her lips.

A useless rage slapped against Sansa's ribs. But before she was able to give voice to it, a knock came from the hall. Lena just cracked open the door before Lady Wynafryd swept past her with an abundance of white fox fur folded over her arm and trailing across the rug. "Felicitations, Lady Jeyne," she unfurled her bundle to reveal an extraordinary cloak. "When the king announced your wedding, I just knew I wanted to be of help to you on your happiest of days. If you haven't already procured one, may I offer this as your maiden's cloak and as a small token of my goodwill." She draped the ivory finery over a chair, displaying intricate panels of beaded bucolic embroidery.

"Oh, Lady Manderly," Jeyne exclaimed, leaning closer with Jonelle in admiration. They ran their fingers slowly over the beadwork. "This is beautiful, but it is too much. I can't possibly wear this. I'm not even a maid."

Wyn swatted her protestations away with a playful laugh. "Who is?" Her eyes darted to Sansa as her smile grew. "And it isn't too much. You deserve something lovely, and this is the first wedding in Winterfell under our king's reign. Let it be glorious." It did not take much for Jeyne to bend to the lady's persuasions after that, and soon the three other ladies were swapping tips and sharing stories like the oldest of friends. Sansa retreated to her desk under the pretense of reviewing her correspondence for there was a wall of unease growing up around her, fine as spider silk, and she had no desire for her companions to get caught in her net. 

Sometime later, a shadow darkened her page, and she glanced up to find Val's cool grey eyes staring down at her. "Hello Red. I promised Edie I'd make sure you aren't working too hard," a sealed scroll slipped from her sleeve and onto the parchment before Sansa, "but seeing ink-stains across your palms right before a celebration, brings me no comfort that I'll be able to fulfill that promise." With a deft hand, Sansa noted the mark stamped across the wax before breaking open the seal. She skimmed the message before rising to throw it into the flames crackling in her hearth. 

"Message received," she smiled at her friend. "And how is our little Ebba? I miss her perfect cheeks and her perfect toes. It's strange. Winterfell was all I wanted for so long, and now that I'm home, I long for an evening before Eddie's hearth with that darling babe of yours in my arms and Ned singing soothing lullabies by my side."

"You speak as if Torrhen's Square is across the Sunset Sea and not a few days' sleigh ride away. Come back with me when I go."

"You know that I cannot. Winter is here, with war and famine nipping at her heels while our kingdom struggles to regain its feet from the last harsh blow. I will have to make do with the memory of your sweet child against my breast, for now."

"Snow tells me your young falcon rides for Winterfell as we speak. Hold _him_ close if you'd like, though that shiny metal plate of his will hardly keep you warm, nor will it soften the blows of winter. You'd do better to cuddle the great beast with the hellfire eyes instead." Sansa laughed at Val's words, and Lady Wyn called to them from across the chamber.

"Enough of winter and war; falcons and wolves. Our bride is a breath of spring, and while none of us could hope to fly close to her sun this day, we cannot make quite such a poor presentation at her wedding feast. We'd be doing our Lady Poole and our kingdom a disservice." Wynafryd's keen ears and sudden turn of favor toward Jeyne put Sansa on edge, but she allowed herself to be beckoned, turning pliant under the other woman's direction as she took over their toilette, summoning a spread of cheese and wine as if she were the lady of the house, and even cajoling Val out of her riding leathers and into a dress, beneath her ermine cloak.

When Satin returned to the princess's chambers, the rooms glowed warmly around the dark maw of the coming night, frost dancing with the flickering candlelight across the panes of glass. Jeyne's cheeks were flushed with wine and laughter as she warmed her hands one last time before the fire as Sansa wrapped her own cloak tight around her shoulders, observing the steady build-up of snow along the outer sill. She sent the ladies, Jonelle, and Wynafryd, to the gallery to await the wedding party's return, but the former lingered in the corridor, pulling Sansa aside as she followed Jeyne and Val out her door.

"I fear I have offended you, Princess."

"How so?" Sansa asked.

"When we met again, on the White Knife, I did not immediately see the woman you have become since leaving King's Landing, nor your relationship with the king." Sansa's heart quickened, searching for the trap in Wyn's words. "I took what I remembered of your demeanor as a girl in the Red Keep and upon that, I layered what I assumed would be an adversarial view you'd take against an upstart bastard trying to usurp you or your trueborn brothers. In those first days in Winterfell, I saw what I believed to be an affirmation of those assumptions, and so I did not treat you, nor Lady Poole, with the respect and care that his Grace's cherished sister deserves. I would like to offer my sincere apology for whatever offence I have caused and make you aware that my amity came only from a place of deep, unwavering loyalty to the king."

Sansa did not know if it was better to laugh or to cry at this pronouncement. She lauded the woman's boldness, and her sincerity seemed genuine enough, though it was predicated on her sense of Sansa's current favor with Jon. If he were to strike the princess down in public on the morrow, the young woman would be just as apt to spit upon her fallen form. So be it. Jon would need such fierce fidelity from a wife in the wars to come. It was a bitter admission and the taste of it did not leave Sansa's tongue until long after she gave Lady Wyn a murmured absolution and a harried farewell. She could not afford to dwell on the inevitability of Jon's future with another. Outpacing her jealousy, she chased Val and Jeyne into the flurry of snow that waited for them outside.

The king stood at the gate, a black shadow, with a dusting of white powder across his shoulders, his great direwolf's eyes glowing red against the torchlight. He offered his arm to Jeyne, but she hesitated.

"Wait," she fumbled with the ties at her chest. "I will meet my husband as I am." Carefully, she folded Wyn's cloak in her arms, handing it to the steward. "I could not deny Lady Manderly's generous gift, but I will not hide myself beneath another's mantle again. Theon Greyjoy will marry Jeyne Poole tonight, scarred and ruined though I am."

"Scarred we may be, my lady," Jon slanted a finger down his brow and across his eye with a shy grin, "but still standing. Resilient. Not ruined. And, if I may," his eyes rose almost carefully to Sansa before creasing into a genuine smile for Jeyne, "you look radiant this evening, Lady Poole. Still, the night is cold and wet. Are you sure you do not want the cloak?" He moved closer, shielding the bride with his own black furs.

"I have known many cold, wet nights, your Grace. What are a few moments more before a lifetime of warmth in love's embrace?"

"Spoken like a true woman of the north. Come Jeyne Poole, devoted daughter of Vayon Poole. Your husband awaits us in the godswood."

Sansa trailed behind the king and his ward, remembering her own rushed wedding, a lifetime ago. _You'll marry the pig boy if I say so, and bed down with him in the sty._ This was a different king and a different ward, and Joffrey could not touch her here.

It was a simple ceremony beneath the shelter of the weirwood's broad canopy, with Mance Rayder presiding over a faintly glowing Jeyne and a gobsmacked Theon, who leaned against his bride as they knelt together before the heart tree's doleful eyes. Briefly, Sansa met Jon's answering stare and her own heart flared. He had no right to stare; no right to stand before her, dark and beautiful and just out of reach. She could almost taste the snowflakes that tangled with his lashes and kissed his crown. She imagined the feel of the wet wool of his collar, where it curled in against his pulse and the gravel in his throat, as he ushered Asha forward from the shadows, rubbed against the base of her spine. Two pairs of blood-red eyes cut through her, searing the heart itching at her chest.

Theon cloaked his bride in Jon's fine sable mantle, adorned with a golden kraken with glittering onyx eyes. There were a few more whispered words between the lovers and a brief yet achingly tender kiss that left Sansa stinging with a wild desolation, and then their small party left the chill of the godswood behind; slightly colder and slightly wetter, but with a growing ember of good cheer between them that crackled into delight when they entered the gallery where the wedding feast had already begun.

Satin had taken her instructions to heart, for the company gathered along the two long tables, nestled in the narrow space, was a small but merry group. She shook off the haunted feeling of the godswood as Tormund knocked elbows with Lord Reed, plying the newlyweds with mead and stories of his own romantic exploits to the stringed accompaniment and droll asides of Mance Rayder. Lady Jonelle's attendance gave Sansa hope that the other lords might take Jon's judgement with more grace than she had feared, while Gendry and Satin's friendly faces bolstered her own fractured spirits. Only Asha paced near the windows, as if drawing strength from the bleak, wet night. Eventually, even she was lured to a seat by the sweet scent of caramelized shallots and butter roasted capons.

Jeyne and Theon sat in a bewildered daze through it all, hands clasped together beneath the table, as the others made up for their reticence with verve. By the time the pears soaked in hippocras were served, Sansa was certain more than half the attendants were drunk, and the half that weren't, probably regretted their sobriety. She could not quite push away her misgivings over whatever dissatisfaction may be brewing amongst the lords in the Great Hall; those who weren't welcomed to this intimate affair. It created an opportunity ripe for Littlefinger's mischief, but she'd assess whatever damage he had wrought in the morning. She'd not have disgruntled lords present at her dear Jeyne's wedding. 

An increasingly giggly Lady Wyn was making a spirited case for Howland to give up a story of the king's childhood, an endeavor which Sansa found herself silently invested in, when a body squeezed onto the bench between herself and Jeyne, stealing her attention away. Jon's gaze heated her cheeks, and his elbow brushed against her arm as he pulled a candied chestnut from her plate to his mouth. Desperately, she tried to regain the thread of conversation around them, but it was a lost cause when his nose brushed her ear. 

"I wish Ned were here." 

"He'd be half in his cups, making a fool of himself before the Lady Wyn."

"I know."

"He'd steal her away from you. You may be the king, but he's far more charming."

"I know. Better looking, too." He stole another chestnut, and she nudged her plate to him, glancing up at last. Jon's cheeks were flushed from the heat of the small, cozy space. His eyes were foggy, and the faint bite of ginger and allspice lingered on his breath.

" _You're_ in your cups!" The king never over-indulged; another of his many redeeming qualities.

"Ready to make a fool of myself," he muttered, and with one sloppy grin, he stilled the conflict that had been rattling through her bones since he sent her from the Great Hall earlier.

"Why did you send me away?" she whispered as the rest of the table roared in laughter; over what, Sansa couldn't say.

"I should have told you of my plans for Asha and Theon."

"Why didn't you?" She was truly perplexed. "I agree with your decisions. I even meant to plead on Theon's behalf."

"Aye, well, it's not lost on me you've been visiting the stupid git in the dungeons, despite my orders not to." She thought she had been discreet, visiting Theon at night, but Jon wagged a finger at her, tapping the tip of her nose. "I anticipated your move, Lady Stark, but many of the lords want him dead and a much harsher punishment for the Ironborn than I gave out today. Lord Glover, in particular, is still furious that Asha Greyjoy held his castle and family hostage for so long, never mind the fact that his wife pleaded to me, in private, to spare Asha's life."

She batted his finger away, pulling his hand down in an attempt at discretion. Mance and Tormund were pushing the other table against the wall to make room for dancing, and she knew that the ratio of free folk to lords this night would do Jon few favors tomorrow. "Still, that doesn't explain why you hid your intentions or kept me away from the trial today. I know you conspired with Gendry and Lady Jonelle." She shot a meaningful look to where the others stood together, nearest the hearth.

Jon didn't deny it. "Aye, I wanted you away. Let the lords lay the blame at my feet, not yours. I'll be leaving you soon-"

"Jon-"

"Shh," his errant hand escaped hers to place a finger at her lips. "I dread it enough as it is. I couldn't possibly withstand your arguments against it while you have me at such a disadvantage." He took a drink from her cup as if to emphasize his point, and she had to purse her lips to suppress a smile. "I have business at the Wall that I can no longer delay, and when I leave, you will rule the North in my stead." Her smile died. He hadn't changed his mind. This king kept his promises, even those that ripped her apart. Now, he rose to his feet, oblivious. "I know you will bear it with more grace than I ever do, Sansa, but if there are measures that I can take now that will ease your burden, I gladly do so. I kept you from the Hall today to deflect any criticisms regarding Theon away from you."

"You weakened your own standing with the lords to protect me?"

"And I'd do it again." He was looking at her in that way that made her flush and want to fly away or never move again, and for just a moment everything felt like light. Then, a ruddy hand clamped down on the king's shoulder, followed by Tormund's even ruddier face.

"The bride and groom are refusing to dance, King Crow." Sansa peeked behind them to where Jeyne was shooting her a look of horror, shaking her head vehemently.

"Theon was just released from the dungeon today. He still half-believes this is a trap," she whispered, and Sansa could hardly blame him. "He's exhausted, Sansa. _We're_ exhausted."

There was a message in Jeyne's frantic eyes, and with a shudder Sansa realized she feared the bedding. Sansa's own near-miss with that terrible tradition still occasionally haunted her dreams. "I will distract them," she promised. "Make your escape and enjoy your first night as a married woman in peace, my beautiful Jeyne." Jeyne squeezed her hand, and Theon even managed a slight nod.

"I will lead the dancing," her voice projected above the cheery din, as she rose to her feet. "But I need a partner. Would you honor me, Tormund Giantsbane?"

The great fool sputtered as Jon clapped him on the back with a laugh. "Me… why, I'm… I'm…"

"You're what?" she challenged. "Would we not make a handsome pair? Two redheads kissed by fire. You always tell me that our fates are entwined, Tormund. Show me it isn't all wind. Here I am, Tall-talker. Steal me away."

"Red. The free folk don't dance the same as kneelers."

"No?" She turned about the room, catching the eyes of their amused onlookers. "Do you place your hands upon the ground, and your feet up in the air? Do your eyes roll back in your head as you howl at the moon?"

"No, of course not."

"Well then, put your hand at my waist like this," she pulled the great bear of a man to her, feeling a heady rush of power as his brow brightened to match his hair, "and take my other hand in yours, like this. Now, Mance will play something simple and slow, and I will follow where you lead."

The room grew quiet, and Tormund held her with surprising delicacy as they waited for music that never came. After half a moment, Jon poked the wilding in the paunch, and Tormund choked out a blustery breath.

"I'm afraid he _is_ all wind, Princess, and he has two left feet besides. I would know. Our steel has danced, anon." He elbowed the wilding away, taking his place. "Though, I could dance with you. _I_ know where to put my hands." His voice dropped at the last and before she could chastise him for the brazen innuendo, Jon was leading her to the center of the room as Mance plucked a slow, almost lazy melody on his lute.

Sansa had barely tasted her wine, yet in Jon's arms, she felt intoxicated all the same. Fire licked up her spine and across her cheeks when she caught his dark gaze. This was not the diversion she had intended when she stepped in to save her friend. She felt exposed. Surely, all could see the truth written across her face. Surely, Jon could see. But then Gendry and Lady Jonelle joined them, and Val and Satin too. Even Lord Reed offered Lady Wyn his hand, and soon no one watched the way the king's sister gazed up at her brother, for they were too busy minding their own feet and hands in the narrow space.

"Can you forgive me?" Jon whispered.

"For what?" _For making me love you?_

"I should have told you my plan," he hesitated, before pulling her closer. "It's only that, after I revealed the truth of myself, I wasn't sure where we stood." Sansa still did not know what to say. She was mute against the lengths Jon went to shield her, even as he doubted her own loyalties. "Can you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive, Jon." _Could he ever forgive her?_ She led with the truth she could control. "All I wanted was for Jeyne to be happy, and thanks to your actions today, she has that chance." Jon followed her eyes to where her friend rose from the table with her new husband, eager to slip away into the night.

"Well, let's hope Theon doesn't muck it up."

"Was it hard for you to spare him? You seem to hate him."

He gave her a wry, strangled laugh. "That man over there? Who cannot look his own sweet wife in the eye? No. How could I? I'll be honest though, Sansa. If I could run my sword through the man he was… I wouldn't hesitate. _That_ Theon betrayed our family."

"Our family held him hostage," she observed, and Jon's face grew stormy.

"He was a ward and always treated like the lord he was. He broke his fast at the head table with Lord and Lady Stark, trained at arms with Robb, received an heir's education from Maester Luwin-"

"Cersei Lannister dressed me in the finest silks and sat me between her beloved Myrcella and Tommen at feasts, even as Joffrey had me beaten, daily, and Tywin Lannister waged war against our brother, Robb. Theon was a hostage in Winterfell. Though our family did not treat him with the cruelty that the Lannisters showed me, and though many in these halls must have forgotten that fact, I'm certain Theon never did." Her sudden passion shocked Sansa, and Jon looked so as well. She was usually so careful not to speak of her time in King's Landing, for she never wanted Jon to see her as the creature she had been behind those red walls.

The music ended before she could make amends, and then it was Lord Reed standing before her for the next song. Jon spun away with Lady Wynafryd in his arms; a lady with better sense than to argue with a brave and gentle king; a lady who would not hide her approval… nor her desire. _Something has broken inside me_ , Sansa thought, as Howland led her dutifully through the steps. Tyrion once told her she hid behind courtesy as if it were a castle wall. If that were the case, Jon was a giant who always managed to step clear over her curtain. _And what did you find in the courtyard, good King? Nothing but hunger and shards of glass._

_Don't come into this castle._

She danced until her feet ached and she could feel the sweat trickle against the small of her back. "Satin, you are a beautiful dancer, but I need to catch my breath." The steward gave her an elegant bow, and she realized they were the last two on their feet. Those remaining slouched together near the fire, where Mance joined them when he realized he had lost his remaining dancers.

Asha, Howland, and Lady Jonelle were gone and had likely carried the last bit of good sense with them to bed. Sansa knew she should follow their example, but the sight of Wyn sitting beside Jon, a sleepy smile upon her face, held her back. With less grace than she would like, she nudged Gendry nearly off the bench so she could squeeze between him and Val. Jon was telling stories of his childhood at Greywater Watch, and Sansa quickly found herself immersed in his tales of floating castles and lizard-lions large enough to eat a horse.

They traded tales until the candles burned low and the silences grew longer and the stories shorter. At some point Sansa found her head resting against Gendry's broad shoulder, and Val's honeyed crown resting against her own. Tormund laid across the rug in a shaggy heap, his bad leg propped against Mance's knee. Eventually, a very put-upon Satin practically carried Lady Wyn from the gallery.

Jon's eyes met Sansa's and in them she found a quiet promise. She rose and gave a quiet farewell to the last of the stubborn revelers, and the king followed her wordlessly down the dark corridors to the lady of Winterfell's chambers. 

Inside, Jon immediately went to the fire, stoking the flames back to life while Sansa noted that her maids had tidied the room and laid out her nightly sleepwear. When she drew the curtain back, the first light of dawn threatened to creep into the room. It would have been her first night in Winterfell without Jeyne beside her in bed, but it seemed her petty jealousy had saved her from at least one lonely night. 

"Thank you." She turned, unsure if Jon had heard, so she tried again, and the words came out hoarse and tired. "Thank you, Jon."

"I just threw a couple of logs on the fire Sans-"

"For Jeyne." He straightened, dusting off his breeches before facing her, and she vowed to be soft. "It was a beautiful, kind thing you did for her. Thank you."

"I did it for you." He was a black silhouette, framed by the red glow of the fire. "I do it all for you, Sansa."

She was a wick.

"Jon-"

"Sansa please," his voice was as hoarse as hers. "Indulge me now, and I will not burden you with these affections again. I understand that another laid claim to your heart long before we met, and I promise I will not stand in the way of your happiness, no matter how it twists at me… but please let me tell you how I love you… now, while I am weak with wine and sentimentality."

He drifted closer, wrapping her in his shadows. "My feelings for you have not changed, Sansa." His hand hovered near her temple and she knew his touch would be the spark and she would burn long after he turned his wolf's gaze away. "You hold my heart. No other will have it."

"Jon, please." She knew not what she asked for, but she blazed for something; some relief from the heat filling her lungs, the weight crushing her windpipes.

"I know, Sansa. I am not asking you to deny your own heart. I know that we cannot marry… not now, and perhaps not ever. But, just this once, before our duties tear us apart again, bear my longing, for I'm burning for you." His hand, still achingly close, fisted at her cheek, as if he were fighting not to touch her. _Touch me_ , she wanted to scream. _Or I will turn to vapor_. Instead, he stepped back. "Tell me you love him."

For a moment, she could not grasp who he was referring to.

"Tell me that you love Ser Hardyng. I can bear this burning, this crush of longing, if only you tell me you love him… that he will make you happy and keep you safe. Tell me you love him, and that will be enough for me."

"I-"

"Your Grace." Her door burst open, and just as he appeared, Satin retreated into the hall.

"Seven hells!" Jon's fist opened and then clenched again, and Sansa was ice once more. "W _hat_ is it?"

"Apologies, your Graces." Satin came in once more, his eyes looking anywhere but at Sansa or Jon. "I did not know you were together."

"The king, my brother, was discussing our upcoming trip to White Harbor." Sansa scrambled for her desk, eager to put distance between herself and the world.

"Our trip?" Jon asked, and she refused to meet his eyes.

"I will accompany you to White Harbor before you sail for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. To retrieve Rickon and," she paused. "And to request, at last, an annulment."

"Never mind that. Why are you here, Satin? What business could you possibly have with the princess at this hour?"

"Well, your Grace, it's only that Ser Hardyng and his men have just returned." The news was a weight, pulling her under. She could hardly manage the effort to paste the requisite smile on her face as Satin continued. "As last evening's festivities are only just now winding down, I came to see if the princess would like to greet her intended now, or wait until later in the day."

It had to be her imagination, but Sansa swore the fire dimmed in the hearth. Jon was stone, and she could not make out his face, half-turned, in shadow, as he swept out of the room.

She was not soft. She was a poisoned amethyst. 

_Be careful, good King. Don't drink from this cup._

"Please let Ser Hardyng know that while I am grateful for his victory and safe return, I have retired for the evening."

"Very good, Your Grace. I'll ensure that you are not disturbed again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter after a very long break. I was really running out of steam when I posted the last chapter., but I took an intentional break, and am now feeling re-inspired. Thank you to anyone who left a comment while I was away. I read every one and they are lovely and make writing a much less lonely endeavor. I will try to finally respond this week. There is so much that I want to include and unfortunately, I have little time to write and do it justice, so I hope these rough drafts are still enjoyable. 
> 
> While this is definitely still a slow-burn, Sansa and Jon will not wait forever to come together. (except, it may feel like they do with the pace in which I'm updating this story...eeek).


	8. And Do You Feel Victorious?

The trees along the path, between the castle and the village, were picked nearly bare, and few but the birds were brave or light enough to go after the remaining fruit clinging to the highest branches.

"A little further." Arya strained for the small bunch of date-plums dangling just beyond her fingertips. 

Elia grunted below her, "I'm pushing as high as I can. You're heavier than you look."

"And you're weaker." 

With a curse, Elia heaved once more, and Arya claimed their prize, snapping the laden twig while her other hand fought against the sloughing bark of the slender branch overhead. Quickly, before she lost her grip and tumbled through the dense leathery leaves, she dropped the fruit into Elia's open satchel and shifted her weight from her friend's sun kissed shoulders. 

"Only half are fully ripe," Elia inspected the fruit as Arya straddled their shared branch, kicking her bared legs through the air. 

"It's fine, I like them tart."

"You would," the younger girl tossed her a couple and Arya bit into the flesh, relishing the velvety sweet taste that puckered at the back of her tongue. She and Elia had taken Lemore to their secret swimming hole earlier in the day, and when the septa took her leave, the girls were reluctant to exchange the golden haze of the afternoon for the dark noisy halls of Storm's End. 

"Did you see her belly?" Elia asked. 

"It was hard to miss," Arya said. For a holy woman, Lemore was shockingly free with her body, stripping down to nought but her septa's crystal to bathe, before draping herself over a tide-smoothed boulder in the sun. Elia was equally eager to disrobe, slicing through the water in quick, confident strokes and diving from the rocks above, as graceful as a gannet. She and Arya swam together often, and when it was just the two of them, Arya relished the feel of saltwater and sun against her skin. She had sated Elia's curiosity over her scars with the briefest of explanations and their friendship had quickly turned to more pressing concerns, like which was the fastest horse in the stable and would anyone notice if they snuck away to the ruins of Summerhall one day.

If the septa spied the healed stab wounds across Arya's abdomen, however, her violet eyes would surely mist over in concern and she'd fuss and call her _dear_ and ruin everything. Better to swim in her shirt and bear the later discomfort of salt trapped against her skin by the linen binding her breasts. The stink of brine still clung to her, mingling with the sweet zest of the fruit. 

"Well, what do you make of it?" Elia pressed, wondering about Lemore's stretch marks. 

"She must have had a baby," Arya shrugged, biting into another unripe date-plum with a grimace; the tannic juice dribbling down her chin. She didn't like them _that_ tart. 

"But she's a septa!" 

"Isn't Tyene's mother a septa?"

"Well, she was... before my father got to her. Lemore still wears the habit."

Arya would eat her boots before she'd believe Lemore was an ordained woman of the cloth. While she was certainly faithful enough, leading the king and his court through daily worship, Arya didn't buy it. She was too free in her affections with the king; too comfortable exchanging her white robes for the colorful painted silks of Dorne, and frankly, too beautiful to be truly godsworn. Evidence of a prior pregnancy only solidified Arya's suspicions.

Footfalls along the path brought their musings to a halt, however. 

"Shh, it's Arianne," Elia crouched down behind Arya, who pulled her feet up just as pale layers of lace floated into view like a pink cloud beneath them. She could almost taste Elia's sugar-tart breath when she mouthed at her cheek, "and she's with Ser Daemon." 

Just beneath the girls' tree, Arianne's dress caught in a bayberry branch, and the knight closed in, freeing the delicate fabric with a lingering hand at the princess's waist. The two were in a hushed, heated conversation, and the girls held their breath, listening.

"Stop, Daemon." Arianne batted his hand away. "Someone could see, and there is too much at stake. Father hasn't had word from Quentyn in months and hesitates to commit our men to Aegon's cause. Without them, what can I offer?"

"Besides what you've already given up?" Daemon was handsome, even as he scowled. 

"Please. I've given him nothing that you haven't already tasted first." Arianne's voice was lilting honey, as she plucked an overripe date-plum from the ground, rolling it between her fingers, graced in gold. 

"Yet I had the decency to ask for your hand."

She tossed the fruit at him, and he caught it easily. " _After._ And it was an empty gesture. You are too smart to have expected anything besides a refusal. I am the princess of Dorne."

"And I'm just an unlucky bastard who loves you." 

Arianne sucked in a breath, before placing a hand to Daemon's cheek. "Don't say that." But her thumb rubbed at his lower lip, belying her censure. Elia sighed in Arya's ear, wrapping a skinny arm around her shoulder, pressing closer to get a better look at the hapless lovers below. 

"Do you love him?" Daemon whispered. 

The princess laughed, feigning mirth. "My feckless cousin, half a boy and prettier than most maids?"

"Ari…" The knight's face was stone. _He doesn't like the way you toy with him,_ Arya thought. 

"Well, pretty boys have ever been my weakness, as you know." Arianne gazed up as if in thought, and Arya shrunk back into Elia's chest, praying the leaves kept them hidden. "Though Indigo eyes alone are not enough to sway my heart. Not when those eyes glance ever east, at the behest of Jon Connington, on the lookout for Daenerys Stormborn and her promised dragons. Or west, each time the Spider writes, toward Highgarden's rich bounty... or even north, whenever the wolf howls its lonely, wild song." Arianne returned the knight's heavy gaze. "No, I do not love him. But I love Dorne, and for Dorne, I'll do what is needed."

"If you marry him, you'll be locked away in the Red Keep for the rest of your life, just like Princess Elia. What good did that do her... or Dorne?"

"I'll be queen of the Seven Kingdoms, not a princess in a tower."

"Aegon is Rheagar's son."

" _And_ Elia's. And you, good ser, are his kingsguard. If we wed, then you'll guard _me_ as well, and each night my sleep will be that much sweeter, knowing the breath of Dorne dances close to my skin." Arianne rose on her slippered toes to press a swift kiss to the frowning knight's lips before sailing out of view once more. Daemon stood a moment longer, his fingers at his mouth, before he trailed the princess toward the castle. 

Elia squeezed Arya in silent emotion, and when they were alone once more, she expelled a muttered breath."I _knew_ it! I _knew_ there was still something between them. Arianne and Daemon were lovers when they were younger. I remember hiding beneath Tyene's bed when she and Ari would titter about doing _disgusting_ things to his cock _._ " She whispered the last, and Arya smiled, swinging down from the tree. 

"What disgusting things?"

"She put it in her mouth... and licked his _hairy stones_." Elia's face was pure disdain as she dropped beside Arya. "Daemon's face is handsome enough I suppose, when he smiles; rare as that is. And he's gallant on horseback, though I've a better seat... but have you _seen_ a man's cock?"

"I have,” Arya answered.

"Disgusting things."

Arya laughed. She wouldn't argue against that sentiment. 

Elia expounded."I thank the Mother each morning that I was born a woman and don't have to tread the earth with a shriveled worm between my legs." The girls stumbled back to the castle, arms wrapped around each other's waists, insulting men and sucking plum juice from their fingers. 

"Are you going to tell him?" Elia whispered when they entered the Round Hall. Across the great room sat Aegon in all his finery upon the throne; his advisors swarming around him like flies around a fatted calf. "About Ari and Daemon?"

"I'm not his Master of Whisperers." Arya muttered back as Aegon took notice of them, smirking. 

"No, but you're his guard!"

"Daemon is jealous, not stupid. I'm not sure how a romantic rival is any danger to the king's body." _And what was there to tell?_ If Arianne were _her_ blood, Arya would urge her to run off with the bastard of Godsgrace, rather than wait around for Aegon and his restless heart. He’d flirt with anything that drew breath. The princess seemed to have the right of it, anyhow. 

The would-be king would marry whoever advanced his quest for the throne and a unified Westeros, and though she may be yet in Essos, laying waste to Slaver's Bay and conquering the Great Grass Sea, Daenerys Targaryen, with her three dragons, was the favored bride by most who had Aegon's ear. That she was his aunt bothered no one. They were Targaryen's after all. She was younger than him by a year and fabled to be a great beauty with silver hair and amethyst eyes.

If it were her, Arya wouldn't wait around to be someone's second choice. 

She and Elia kept to the back of the great hall, picking at the remains of the day's banquet, staring up at the tapestries in sleepy silence until Aegon approached. 

"My wild girls, brown as dates, with the scent of the sea in your hair. I'm crippled with jealousy. What adventures did you have, whilst I wasted precious hours of my life cloistered with Connington, who reads correspondence with the cadence of tortoise, and Strickland who broke wind apace?"

"You have a rival." Elia declared through her laughter.

"Ah yes, I hear he is a plump boy with golden curls and a fondness for kittens." Aegon plucked Arya's pear from her hand, biting into it with relish. 

"Not _that_ rival. I meant a rival for our dear cousin's affections. Tell him, Arya." Elia jabbed an elbow into her side, but Arya refused. 

The king glanced between them with a sigh. "Huh. No need for details. I am already aware." 

"Then you should challenge him to a duel!"

Aegon laughed quietly, tugging Elia's braid. "And why would I do that? Ser Daemon is a skilled fighter. He learned from the best, did he not?"

"Aye. He squired for my father, but I watch you in the yard. You could best him."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Still, how would slaying or being slayed by my own sworn shield do anything to ingratiate myself to Arianne?"

Elia was struck mute by this reasoning, and Aegon patted the top of her head. "Off to your chambers, Lady Lance, and stop meddling in others' affairs. I need a word with Arya."

When the girl loped away, he turned to Arya with unusual sincerity. "We've heard back from the Wall." In his long fingers he held a scroll. 

She made no move to take it, so after a moment Aegon read, "Here is the bit that pertains to you... _And as to your claim of having the Stark girl, I ken only scratch my head, for everyone knows the girl is wedded and bedded in Winterfell. Either way, her brother's watch has ended..._ It's signed by one, Eddison Tollet, nine hundred and ninety-ninth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

Arya turned away, fixing her eyes on the stone wall. 

"It doesn't say he's dead." His voice was soft and horrible.

"It does. Jon Snow would _never_ forsake his vows. Bastards have honor too." She hissed, slapping his hand away when he had the gall to reach for her. 

"Would you rather he have honor or his life?" Aegon bit back and Arya turned to hit him, but he stayed her hand. 

_"_ Not everyone dreams of running away," she sneered. _Like you do...and I do._

He stared at her, eyes dark. "I'm sorry, Arya. I shouldn't have said that." She wanted to wipe that stupid softness from his face. She didn't want his pity. "I'm so very sorry."

He lowered their joined hands with a heavy sigh. "We shall find your sister. We'll send word to every corner of the realm. Place a high reward..."

"There is no point. She's likely dead as well." How could Sansa have survived when no one else had?

_I'm alone. I've been alone. And alone, I'll continue to be._

Aegon reached for her, but she shrugged away again."Take the night, Arya. In the morning, we ride for Bronzegate."

When at last she slept, she dreamt of home. Her pack ran in fear as the wolfswood lit up in flames around them. Horns sounded in the distance and men shouted, yet the air did not stink of smoke and the forest floor was cool beneath her paws. Her silent brother waited under the glow of a full moon, in the hills where dead men lay.

\---

The Faith would finally pass judgement on the two captive queens in Kings Landing, and the second summer in the stormlands was at an end. The golden company laid siege to Bronzegate, the nearest castle fortified by those loyal to House Lannister, but Harry Strickland warned reinforcements would barrel down the kingsroad soon to aid House Buckler and his men. It was imperative for Aegon's army to hold everything south of the Wendwater before they did.

So, Aegon had proposed one-to-one combat to Lord Buckler. It was an offer readily accepted by the besieged lord, yet heartily protested by the young king's aggrieved counselors once they had read the terms. 

Arya observed their objections from the shadows of the royal pavilion where it sat proudly, in black and red silk on a hill overlooking the castle. "Your grace, if your champion loses, you promised not only to end the siege against Bronzegate but also to set aside your claim to the Iron Throne," Lord Connington slammed his glove into the table, and it sounded like granite against the wood. 

"I did. Yes." Aegon was resplendent in his ceremonial armor, a circlet across his brow, with three red rubies inlaid in gleaming gold suns. A red dragon coiled endlessly around itself on his black breastplate, one ruby eye staring his advisors down. He looked every inch a Targaryen king.

"My liege, that is preposterous. You cannot bet your birthright on the skill of one man's sword... and if you think for one moment that you will be your own champion, well-"

Aegon laughed, spinning a gold coin across the table. "Careful, Connington. You are speaking to a king. It is _my_ birthright. Not yours. And, whoever said I'm betting on a man?"

Lord Connington looked almost ill with anger. "You cannot be serious." All eyes turned to Arya. She stared back with malevolence. "It is an insult...to the art of war...to the work of a lifetime...to-"

"It is an insult to my ears, that you continue this defiance. I’ve made my decision, though I leave it to Arya of House Stark to accept or decline. What say you, Lady Vengeance? Will you be my champion this day?"

"I will dance." _What else did she have left?_

\---

The sun was high when the castle gates opened, a cadre of knights riding out in gleaming metal, azure banners waving behind them. Beneath a shade Aegon waited, Lord Connington and Harry Strickland at his side. Arya stood in the sun, amongst the ranks of the golden company, already sweating beneath her new quilted jacket, black and red in the king's colors, and the gorget he had commissioned, which bore a direwolf snarling across the new steel. She had declined the rest of the gifted armor, stalking out of his pavilion to ready herself before he could push a sword on her as well. 

_Needle would be enough._

It was perhaps too small for her now, and she had trained aplenty with other weapons, but with the news of Jon's death still bleeding through her skin, she needed to grip the last bit of the north remaining to her. 

Predictably, Lord Ralph Buckler was just as affronted by Aegon's choice of champion as Jon Connington had been. He was putting forth his son and heir, Cortney, a man of six and thirty who had cut his teeth in battle during the Greyjoy rebellion. 

"You make a mockery of us all, with this jape," The lord struggled to settle his destrier, as his son threw his shield upon the ground. 

"I mock no one," Aegon returned with a serene smile. "Just as you have chosen your champion with care, so have I. There is no one I better trust to win me your castle than my chosen champion. She is of noble blood, as is your son. Where is the dishonor?"

"The dishonor is in trickery!" Lord Cortney yelled. "Your champion is a girl. A woman would be shame enough, but a child?" He spit on the ground before them, and Aegon leaned back in his cushioned, velvet seat. 

"Oh, don't let her small stature deceive you. I assure you, she's all woman. It's only that she tapes down her breasts!" Arya felt a rush of heat splatter across her chest and face as the crowd chittered and her opponent gave her another glance. She would kill the dragon king. 

"Fine. I will kill your bitch, and you will slither back across the narrow sea. Your conquest will be nought but a footnote in some maester's history if this the best you've got, lizard king."

"I assure you, she is.” 

She hazarded a glare towards Aegon, but his eyes were closed, face tilted towards the sun. He was truly the most insolent bastard in all the seven kingdoms. 

“I hope you have prepared your best chambers, Lord Buckler. Tonight I will sleep in your castle." He turned a lopsided smile in her direction. "Let's get on with it. I'm bored and hungry." Jon Connington scowled down at his king. At least she was not the only one who'd like to wring his stupid neck. 

Arya met her foe in the ring of onlookers. She clicked her teeth together, sliding into her water dancer's stance, presenting only her side. He came at her in a clatter of metal, and she stepped away, smooth as summer silk. If anyone should be affronted, it should be her, forced into a one-sided dance with a hacking, hammering brute, covered in steel and metal from bald head to broken toe. 

She would not prolong this dance, not for _their_ entertainment. She allowed Cortney a glancing blow against her right arm, and then, swift as a snake, she pierced the lord behind the knee, bringing him to the ground. Fierce as a wolverine, she knocked the helm from his face and his sword from his hand. 

"You horse-faced cunt!" He shrieked his last words. Calm as still water, she silenced him forever. 

The field was quiet as a shadow. She watched the blood leach from his neck into the dirt like a dark spring. 

" _Valar Morghulis_." 

She left him there for his father, with the clouds above reflected in his pale blue eyes. The men of the golden company parted as she walked back into camp, but she felt _his_ steps behind her. 

"Arya-"

"The castle is won, your Grace. Feel free to bugger off to your feather bed and plot your next conquest."

"Arya, wait." She ignored him, but he rushed forward, blocking her way. "I only said that bit about your breasts to rile you. You fight better when you're angry."

"I didn't need anger to kill that man."

His otherworldly eyes studied her a moment. "True… you're angry enough already. And you're hurt."

"I'm fine."

"Go see Haldon. Tonight, we'll dine in your honor."

The halfmaester was reading in his tent, a half-played game of cyvasse on the table before him. At the sight of her, he jumped to his feet. "You're bleeding."

"Get out." She held the flap open for him with a look. "I can clean myself up." He gathered a few books, and obeyed her, wordlessly. 

With the rush of battle receding, her arm ached with a dull throb, and her fingers bled where her nails had caught in Cortney's helm, when she fought it from his face. She stared at her reflection in the silvered looking glass. A bruise bloomed at her cheek, and she'd cut her lip, though she did not recall when or how. _No matter._ She was a sword, not a beauty. 

Stained with his blood, all her new finery was ruined, except for the steel gorget. She washed the direwolf clean first, before carefully peeling out of her padded coat. She was fighting the last of the ties, when Septa Lemore came in. 

She moved to help at once, and Arya let her. Dutifully, she lifted her arms above her head, and the older woman slid her sweaty shirt from her body with gentle care. The cut across her arm was not deep, but it bled faster than Arya could wipe it away. 

"It was wrong of Aegon to name you champion today." Lemore took the washcloth from Arya's hand, dipping it back in the soiled water.

"Why? I won."

"And do you feel victorious?"

"I feel nothing at all." She shrugged, looking away from Lemore and her judging eyes. _Who was she to seek Arya out with her pity and her false sympathy? Why wouldn't she just leave her alone?_

"That is why you were the wrong choice. Though a man, I fear Aegon still views the world with the eyes of a boy. He does not see how close you live to the edge."

"What edge?" Arya turned, staring at the insufferable woman, fury overtaking her. "And what is it to you? You aren't my mother or my guardian. You're not even a real septa. You're just a Dornish whore passing your son off as some dead prince!"

Lemore's eyes grew round, her lips pressed to a flat line, and Arya knew she had gone too far, but she didn't care. The words felt good and true. 

"Is that your theory, then? That I had a child with some Lysene sailor and passed the babe off as a Targaryen, to Jon Connington, no less. The man who loved Rheagar more than any wife, and served as Hand to Aerys?"

"I've found no correlation between a man's title and his intelligence."

For a moment the older woman just stared at her with an uncanny calm, and it made Arya angrier. Why wouldn't the woman slap her and be done with it, or at least leave?

"If you didn't have your aunt's face, I'd be hard-pressed to believe you were Ned Stark's daughter. There is a meanness in you, Arya. Something dark and spreading, and if you don't conquer it soon, it will bring you down in a way no man or beast ever could. Do you think you are the first girl to lose her way? To lose her family and her name?"

Her anger shuttered. "No… no, of course not."

"Then why do you act like it?" Lemore huffed a bitter laugh, not waiting for a response. Arya didn't have one.

Lemore continued to clean her wound. When she spoke again, her voice was low and wistful. "Lately, I've found myself thinking on my daughter; imagining the young woman she'd be if she had lived to take her first breath." She smeared a poultice of herbs and honey across Arya’s cut, before cutting the first bandage. "It's an exercise in pain, mind you, and if I were a stronger woman, I'd set these thoughts aside. But they are all but impossible to bury now that three young women have been suddenly thrust into my path."

Her beautiful violet eyes met Arya's, dark as port in the tent's shade. "She'd be but a few years younger than Arianne. I like to imagine them growing up together, close as sisters, like Elia and I once were; sharing secrets and a love of Dorne. I also like to imagine my daughter loving our young Elia as much as I loved her namesake. But most often…" Lemore stopped her work, placing a soft hand to Arya's cheek, "I find myself longing just to look at her. I see her so clearly, staring back at me... with _your_ face."

"What?" Arya blew out, suddenly incredulous. " _Why?_ " Why would the beautiful Lemore want her dead daughter to have _her_ face? No one wanted her face. 

"Because, my dear, if my daughter had lived to take a breath, she'd be closer in relation to _you_ than Aegon, child of my heart though he is."

Arya shook her head, backing away from Lemore's soft hands and haunting eyes. 

_She lies._

_Look with your eyes._

_"It's an old tale, that one."_

_Look with your ears._

_"There's no stain on your father's honor. There's nought like a tourney to make the blood run hot, so maybe some words were whispered in a tent of a night, who can say?"_

_Look with your skin_

_"I never knew my aunt. She threw herself in the sea from atop the Palestone Sword before I was born. Your lord father never spoke of her?"_

_The Seeing, the true seeing, that is the heart of it._

“You’re Ashara Dayne, the lady of Starfall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes: 
> 
> One reminder - I've aged up the Starks, but not necessarily the other characters. So, in canon Elia is far older than Arya, but in this story, Arya is 15 and Elia is 14. 
> 
> Also, Arya's storyline is still a bit behind Jon and Sansa's...though Edd is still a bit behind the times (more to come on that). I gave a clue in Arya's wolf dream about where in the timeline she is, but I'll also just give it away here, since keeping the timeline straight is DIF-FI-CULT! Jon and Sansa have retaken Torhen's Square, but not yet captured Winterfell. 
> 
> Shout out to Agent Rouka and their metas about fruit in asoiaf. I ended up splattering lots of fruit imagery in this chapter, and that would be why.
> 
> I'll probably have other notes to add, once I've thought about it more. I appreciate all the comments I've received, and apologize for any I haven't responded to yet. I'll try to clean up my inbox soon, but know that I read every one and love the encouragement! Positive feedback by way of comments and kudos is a huge motivator, especially when working on this monster of a fic.


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